


One For Sorrow, Two For Joy

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-04-25 11:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: One for sorrow, two for joy,Three for a girl, four for a boy,Five for silver, six for gold,Seven for a secret, never to be told.A series of thefts at high society parties has Phryne on the trail of jewel thief. The only clear consistency is the presence of The Disillusioned Magpie, a magician with secrets conning his way through London’s elite. With the help of a newly arrived Jack, she investigates--the only problem is, she needs access to the servants. She always though Jack would look jaunty in a chauffeur’s cap...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so a couple of times a year I break my "Complete before posting" rule for one reason or another, and come to regret it. And yet, somehow, after enough time has passed to forget I end up doing it again. So I apologise in advance--there will be no regular schedule, fuck knows what will happen to consistency, and *waves hands* everything is on fire.

From his position on the bed, Jack watched Phryne padding across the bedroom of her suite, bare-faced and wrapped in a towel. He wondered if this moment of domestic intimacy was more alluring than the hours they’d just spent in bed, then remembered the thing she’d done with the champagne and decided it was merely a very close second.

“Are you certain you don’t want to come?” she asked, selecting a gown from the mahogany wardrobe. “Alice is a lovely girl really, I’m sure you’d get on well.”

“There is no chance that I am getting out of this bed tonight.”

As if to prove his point, he burrowed deeper into the pillow. As this was the most comfortable bed Jack had ever experienced, it was not a difficult task.

“Travel that tiring?” Phryne asked.

“That too,” he said wryly.

She laughed at his joke and bloody hell did he love her. What, exactly, that would mean had barely crossed his mind in the preceding hours; his ship had docked a day early, and they’d barely made it to the bed in their enthusiasm. And given the results of said enthusiasm, he didn’t have the energy to muster up more than a passing interest in the topic. Phryne was still going through her wardrobe, exchanging one gown for another.

“There is a magician, if that changes your mind,” she remarked, most of her attention on the silk in her hand.

He groaned. “Not in the least.”

She was not the slightest bit deterred.

“He’s apparently taking on the London scene like a tidal wave—nobody can get enough of the Disillusioned Magpie.”

Jack snorted at the name. “Miss Fisher, the last time you were involved with a magic show, a woman lost her head. That’s not an incentive.”

“Now Jack,” she reprimanded, finally satisfied with her sartorial choice, “I wasn’t even _there_ that night.”

“And you think your presence will _reduce_ the chances of murder?”

Rather than reply to Jack's frankly excellent point, she dropped her towel and bent over to pull something on—he really didn’t notice what, because the unstudied easiness and confidence in her movements did wonders for stirring one part of him. Good grief, he hadn’t been this insatiable as an adolescent or a newlywed. Then again, he thought as she straightened out once more, revealing the elegant lines of her back, he hadn’t known Phryne Fisher at that point. That went a far way to explaining matters.

She’d sorted whatever undergarments she’d chosen—Jack was fairly certain he should know the items by name, but it rarely came up in his line of work and fashion had changed since the last time he’d been privy to a woman’s more intimate wear—and had turned her attention to the dress she’d chosen.

“Help me?” she asked over her shoulder.

He stood, the plush carpet warming his feet, and crossed the room to secure a trail of small buttons along the back of the gown. When it was done he pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck, her skin soft beneath his lips, and then moved to his still unpacked valise in search of pyjamas. Finding them, he quickly dressed and slid back between the silken sheets; they still held traces of Phryne, and the scent of perfume and sex were rather like a balm to his soul. He began to doze as Phryne finished her preparations.

Eventually the mattress beside him shifted, and he opened his eyes. She looked resplendent and poised, and for a moment he almost wished he was joining her.

“I won’t be late,” she said, giving him a surprisingly soft look, “but I did promise Alice I’d be there tonight.”

“Go. And don’t hurry on my account,” he replied. “I’ll be fast asleep before you hit the lobby.”

“You poor man,” she laughed, brushing his hair from his forehead. “So exhausted. It was very cruel of me.”

“If that’s your definition of cruel, I’d hate to see you being kind.”

She tilted her head, then smirked.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” she said seductively, “but perhaps you ought to rest first. Can’t have you collapsing from exhaustion.”

“It would be inconvenient, if nothing else.”

“It would,” she agreed. “Especially as I require you to come to my parents’ anniversary party next week.”

“Exhaustion is quickly becoming preferable.”

She rolled her eyes in agreement.

“I’d like you there all the same.”

Jack caught her hand, raising it to his lips to press a kiss against the back of it; a silly indulgence, perhaps, but he was allowed.

“I’ll be there, Miss Fisher.”

She laid her hand against his chest, leaning in to kiss him; it was very different than the kisses they’d exchanged earlier, the intent replaced with a sweet certainty. It was both surprising and completely expected.

“I know you will, Jack. Now get some sleep.”

Jack closed his eyes, and felt Phryne fiddle with the top button on his pyjamas before standing to leave. She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I am glad you were early,” she said quietly.

He hummed in agreement, and heard the the soft flick of a lamp being turned off and her footsteps dancing towards the door.

———

Alice Walters-Cunningham had been one of the first people to befriend Phryne when she’d arrived in London the first time, and Phryne was happy to see her old friend once more. Exiting her taxi, she bounded up the stairs of the Mayfair townhouse.

“Alice, darling!” she said, kissing the blonde woman’s cheek. “This is a swell party.”

Alice laughed. “You haven’t even been inside yet, you flirt.”

“I can sense these things,” Phryne remarked, craning her neck to see past her host. There was music and lights and warmth spilling from the house, a welcome counter to the evening’s autumn chill. “How’s your brother?”

“Married,” Alice said dryly. “To a lovely girl who is shaping up to be a battle axe.”

Phryne laughed. “George did always need a heavy hand to guide him. That’s marvelous news.”

“I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Phryne blinked once, realising that she’d not intended her questions in that way and was apparently so lovestruck she hadn’t realised they could be.

“Oh no, not at all,” she said absently. “George and I are well in the past. And you? Any luck in love?”

“Only in avoiding it,” Alice laughed, “which is the best sort of luck to have.”

Thinking of the man stretched out in her bed at that very moment, Phryne found she could find a great deal of merit in love. But that was neither here nor there under the circumstances. And Alice’s flippancy was not entirely sincere; her fiance had gone to war and the man who returned was so shellshocked he no longer recognised her. In her shoes, Phryne might avoid the whole thing as well.

“I suppose you’ll just have to find other ways to entertain yourself then,” Phryne said. “It is wonderful to see you.”

“That’s because I’m wonderful, darling,” Alice replied lightly. “Head inside, I’ll join you once everyone has arrived.”

Phryne did, handing her fur stole to a member of staff—a slight young man that put her in mind of Jane, for some reason—and heading towards the large parlour. The party was the sort of wild hedonism the Bright Young Things of London embraced with such enthusiasm, but the guest list kept it from being ornerous. Phryne was secretly relieved; as much as she loved the truly wild parties, she found she had less tolerance for silly vapidness than she once had. She greeted old friends and made new acquaintances, dancing with the men who asked and thrilling people with tales of her detective business. She mentioned Jack in passing—indeed, it was difficult to tell many stories where he was not involved—but every time she did there was a small pang to have left him. She was half-convinced she’d return to the hotel suite and find his arrival had been a dream; if it wasn’t for the occasional pleasant ache from their afternoon activities, she might have truly believed it. She had little time to dwell though, and plenty of other stories to tell of Melbourne; adventuresses and the development of Dot and the magic of Mr. Butler.

“You know, Phryne, I’m beginning to think Australia agrees with you,” Alice remarked over her coupe as another story drew to a close. The rest of the audience broke away for refreshments, leaving the two women alone.

“It really does,” Phryne smiled; as much as she enjoyed travelling, this trip to London had also highlighted how very happy she was to live in Melbourne. “Fortunately for me, one of its greatest charms has arrived in London as instructed, so I’m in no need to hurry back with great speed.”

“That is a first,” Alice laughed. “Come along, I’ll introduce you to Robin.”

“Robin?”

“The Disillusioned Magpie,” Alice clarified. “He’s due to perform in twenty minutes or so, but I seem to remember that you have an fascination with the process. He’s a charming man, just disreputable enough to stoke your interest.”

“Intriguing. Lay on, MacDuff.”

Arm-in-arm, the two women headed up the stairs; when they were alone, Alice leant in slightly.

“Do be careful,” she said, “Norf is looking for a new butler. Half his staff up and left after his latest scandal.”

Norf—really Marcus Fitzalan-Howard, Duke of Norfolk—was an affable, somewhat obnoxious young man who had a knack for offending his staff, not out of malice but a distinct refusal to acknowledge the conventions of propriety. Not all servants had the adaptability of Mr. Butler, after all.

“I’m not certain what that has to do with me,” Phryne replied.

“Well, your man,” Alice said. “He sounds like an absolute marvel, and willing to put up with all sorts of shenanigans. Norf would nick him in half a moment if you gave him a chance.”

Phryne had not drunk nearly enough champagne to justify the time it took for Alice’s meaning to become clear; she’d apparently interpreted Australia’s great charm as Mr. Butler, and Phryne found no desire to disabuse her of the notion, as least at the moment.

“I believe there’s no danger of that,” she said instead, trying to repress her small smile. “He’s deeply loyal, and not easily persuaded. It took all my considerable charms to win him over.”

“How did you?” Alice asked. “I can’t imagine he’s the sort let out of service for many reasons.”

“Pure luck, I’m afraid. I’ve no doubt he’d have been snatched up in an instant if it had been public knowledge he was available. Fortunately for me, our paths crossed before it was, and I could recognise quality when I see it.”

Which was a truth of both men in question, really, and Phryne felt no guilt in obfuscating. Now really wasn’t the time to explain the situation to Alice. Explaining would lead to questions, and questions would lead to more questions, and soon she’d be mired knee-deep in the bog of Precisely What Jack Robinson Was To Her. She’d much rather have a chance to luxuriate in his arrival before addressing those thorny matters.

“Well, spot of luck for you, Phryne!” Alice exclaimed. “I’ve still got Campbell. I love him dearly, of course, he’s been in the family since I was wee, but he doesn’t sound like a patch on your man. Imagine, a butler with an entire arsenal at his disposal! What a lark!”

Phryne patted the other woman’s arm.

“There’s something to be said for not needing one,” she countered. “The cost of replacing windows when people are breaking in left, right, and centre can be obscene, for starters.”

Alice laughed, then tilted her head towards a door.

“Our conjurer,” she said conspiratorially, then knocked firmly.

The door swung open, revealing a young man in a slightly shabby tuxedo—shabby, Phryne thought cynically, in a rather deliberate way—and a cape with an iridescent blue-green lining, like the wings of a European magpie. Well, at least he was embracing the theme.

“Alice, darling,” he charmed, “is it time already?”

“Not quite,” she said. “This is my good friend, Phryne Fisher. She was very eager to meet you.”

Phryne extended her hand to shake, but the man caught it and placed an overly-elaborate kiss against the back; she couldn’t help but to compare it to Jack’s kiss as she’d left the hotel room, and found it lacking.

“Enchanté,” said the Magpie.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m sure,” Phryne countered by rote; her first impression of the man was a con artist who thought that a few simple tricks would put people at ease, lulling them into a false sense of superiority and making his tricks seem all the more impressive. And it seemed to be working; she hadn’t been in London two days before she’d heard of The Disillusioned Magpie. “Tell me, have you been an illusionist long?”

“Like my father before me, and his mother before him. My younger brother does not possess the talent, but my sister… oh, Wren will eclipse even my talents one day. For now, however, she assists me in my act. Wren!”

A young woman—more of a girl, really, perhaps a little older than Jane—emerged from the bedroom. She wore a dress and hair piece covered in black feathers; the starkness allowed her eyes, a blue that veered close to purple, to seize the attention. Her small, lithe figure completed the picture, and the whole image rather brought to mind a fairy; Phryne suspected that her appearance went a fair way to explaining her talents. She smiled sweetly, however, and seemed perfectly human once more. Illusions and pretense.

“Wren,” the Magpie said, “this is—Miss?” Phryne nodded. “Miss Phryne Fisher, a good friend of our hostess.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fisher.”

“Please, call me Phryne,” Phryne said. “Your brother says you are a talented magician in your own right?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, miss. One day, perhaps.” The Magpie coughed, and Wren stood a little straighter. “The forces are very powerful, but unpredictable. We will see what the future holds.”

Phryne looked over the siblings again, not completely happy with the conclusions she’d drawn. Still, there was time to see how it played out.

“I’m sure we will,” she said. “I’d love to speak with you after the show, but Alice and I should leave you to prepare for now.”

The Magpie nodded his head slowly, attempting to appear deliberate and wise; Phryne had barely made it around the corner with Alice before she began to laugh.

“That’s the infamous Magpie?” she asked. “London has become remarkably gullible since I’ve been gone.”

Alice’s eyes sparkled.

“You need to see him in action, Phryne. He’s a remarkable showman, and his sister has enough raw talent for them both. Not all of our circle is so discerning, but even the cynical ones have to admit he’s entertaining.”

“Well, entertaining is worth something,” Phryne said.

The two women had rejoined the party and grabbed fresh champagne when the Magpie and Wren appeared, going from group to group and performing small tricks before the lights were dimmed and they took to the stage for their proper performance. Phryne had to give Alice her dues—the Magpie was remarkably good with an audience; even she was drawn in once or twice, despite recognising the tricks he deployed.

The grand finale—an emerald necklace was borrowed from an audience member, then Wren disappeared from the stage, only to reappear at the door to the parlour, holding said necklace—was just over and the lights raised once more when a scream broke out.

“My diamonds! They’re gone!”

Well, Phryne thought, at least it wasn’t murder.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing. ♥ I am trying to get updates up at a reasonable pace, but life's been horrifically busy this past week.

“My diamonds! They’re gone!”

It was a guest Phryne didn’t know well, a young woman named Rose van Houten who was new to the London scene, the daughter of an American shipping magnate. Phryne made her way over; Rose was panicking, her voice high and frantic.

“Father will be furious, those were Mother’s favourite—”

“Rose,” Phryne said calmly; the girl looked up at her, “what is missing?”

“My diamond bracelets. Three thin bangles, with diamonds and enamel. They were my late mother’s, Father never lets me wear them and now—”

Three bangles were unlikely to fall off at once, but it wasn’t impossible. Phryne looked around—most of the guests were watching the scene, but not moving. Right, well, this needed a firm hand. She crooked her head towards Alice, inviting the woman over.

“Can you please arrange to have everyone look?” she asked.

Alice looked doubtful.

“Please,” Phryne repeated, hoping the weight in her voice would inspire cooperation. “I’m sure Rose can provide a more detailed description, not that I imagine there are many bracelets lying around the parlour. I’ll just…” she made a vague motion with her fingers, and Alice nodded in understanding and turned to address the crowd. She clapped twice, to ensure she had everyone’s attentions, and spoke loudly.

“Rose has misplaced her bracelets. If everyone could have a look around, I’m sure we’ll find them in short order.”

Crowd distracted, Phryne turned to one of the servants, the young man who’d taken her stole at the door and reminded her of Jane.

“Your name?”

“Martin Lee, miss, but my friends call me Marty.”

“Right then, Marty,” Phryne said, “I would like you to excuse yourself to the hall, telephone Scotland Yard, then head to the kitchen and retrieve refreshments for our guests, and rejoin us as quickly as possible.”

The man nodded and quietly left the room. Phryne moved towards the parlour doors, scanning the crowd—nobody was acting suspiciously, at least, though the Magpie and Wren were standing to the side. Wren still held the emeralds from the performance; Phryne gestured for her to come closer.

“Shall I take that?” Phryne asked, nodding towards the necklace. “I’ll get it back to its owner.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose,” Wren said, handing them over with an embarrassed smile. “This has rather upstaged our performance.”

“I’m sure your reputation can withstand it,” Phryne replied. “You are the talk of London.”

“Robin is, perhaps, but very few people pay any mind to the magician’s assistant.”

“That is their loss, then,” Phryne said, taking a chance to smile at the girl. “You were very good.”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher.”

“I’ve told you, call me Phryne.”

“Thank you, Phryne,” Wren said, glancing away. Quickly excusing herself, she joined the search for the missing bracelets.

By the time the group had conceded defeat, Marty was back with the refreshments. Phryne encouraged people to take a seat and eat, trying to obscure the fact that she was keeping them in the parlour until the police arrived; the last thing she wanted was to let them realise that they were all suspects in a theft. She walked through the room, one eye on the door at all times, and chatted with the various guests. It didn’t take long for there to be a knock at the door; Phryne gestured to Alice to keep people distracted and slipped into the hall to answer it.

There were two policemen at the door, a young constable and a lanky officer who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Alexander Shore.

“An inspector?” Phryne chirped. “That’s rather surprising for some missing jewelry.”

The man glanced around the foyer and stepped inside.

“I believe the address demanded my presence,” he said, “even if the crime may not.”

Oh, this _would_ be fun.

“I’m so pleased that the Metropolitan Police have some sense of priority,” Phryne said lightly; the man arched an eyebrow in return, but said nothing. “Fortunately for you, I do have some experience with these matters myself. Miss Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective.” She held her hand out and the inspector shook it.

“Lady Detective? Surely one need not specify one’s sex, unless it’s to apologise in advance for any shortcomings.” Phryne glared and opened her mouth to mount a defense, but the inspector laughed and raised a hand. “A joke, Miss Fisher. We’ve had women officers for years now, and for the most part I find them agreeable. I’ve heard rumours they might begin to gain the rank of inspector soon, though the gears of bureaucracy are always slower than they ought to be.”

“It’s the paperwork,” Phryne said, then leant in and dropped her voice. “I do as little of it as possible.”

Inspector Shore laughed again.

“Well then, Miss Fisher Lady Detective, please fill me in on the circumstances of these missing… diamonds, was it?”

“Yes, three diamond bangles. A family heirloom, sadly. Miss Van Houten was in possession of them earlier this evening—I took note because the blue enamel matched her eyes almost perfectly. Sometime between a quarter to eight, when I spoke with her, and 10:35 they were stolen directly off her wrist. I’m sure she could narrow it down further, but the poor girl is deeply distressed and may not be the most reliable witness. All the partygoers have been sequestered in the parlour since the loss was discovered.”

“And the staff?” Shore asked.

“Them as well, save for the one I sent to retrieve refreshments and telephone you fine officers. But without knowing when the loss occurred, it is difficult to determine who had the opportunity to abscond with them. Perhaps you could have officers search the rest of the house while we interview the guests?”

“We, Miss Fisher?”

“But of course!” she said, tilting her head as if the possibility she wouldn’t be included has never occurred to her. “I know many of these people, and stand a much better chance of recognising when they are lying to you. My assistance will be invaluable.”

Shore hesitated for a moment, evaluating what she had to say. After a moment, he nodded.

“Tell me, Miss Fisher, does that work on police officers where you are from? One can only presume it’s not London, because I’ve no doubt I’d have heard of you before now if it was.”

“I’m based in Melbourne,” Phryne said. “Australia. And yes, I have found that any police officer worth working with finds me agreeable.”

Well, it was mostly true. After a certain point, at least, but that was splitting hairs. Shore nodded.

“Very well. You may accompany me for the questioning, once I’ve taken your own statement. Constable Hurst will telephone the station for more constables, who will search the premises.”

“Wonderful,” Phryne said. “I’ll go fetch the lady of the house, who will no doubt have a small room to conduct the interviews, and can instruct your constables of any particular places of interest.”

Phryne did just that, calling Alice from the parlour and making introductions, then leading Inspector Shore to a small study on the first floor that Alice had offered.

“Do you mind if I search while we talk?” she asked. “I’m rather restless, and the room does need to be searched.”

Shore had taken a seat in one of the leather wing-backed chairs and pulled out a notebook, but gestured for Phryne to do what she liked. She began by examining the bookshelves closest to the door, answering Shore’s questions as they came up. She gave as accurate an account as she could recall; the man perked up considerably when she mentioned the Magpie, and she turned to face him properly.

“You know the name,” she stated.

“I’m not sure what gives you that impression.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “Please give me some credit, inspector. I did think it odd that you’d arrive on the scene first—called in later, perhaps, but there was no reason to send more than a constable to begin with.”

“I told you, the address demanded it.”

“It’s not the address,” Phryne argued, beginning to piece together an idea. “Or perhaps it is, but not in the way you are hoping I’ll interpret it. You’ve heard of the Magpie, and came yourself when you heard there were stolen jewels—this isn’t the first party you’ve been called to, is it?”

Shore shrugged. “I’m sure if there were a spat of thefts at high society parties you would have sussed it out by now.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“I’ve only been in London a few weeks, and I’ve been distracted by personal matters. But you’re not denying it.”

“I’m not.”

“How many?”

“That’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

Phryne had turned her attention back to her search; she lifted a painting off the wall to search behind it, but found nothing.

“It cannot be too high a number, or people would have concluded it is the Magpie. But you only seem to have a suspicion.”

“He’s performing at the time of disappearances,” Shore admitted. “As is his sister. It’s impossible for him to be behind it, but so far it is the only commonality between all three thefts.”

Phryne bent behind the desk, checking the drawers for false bottoms. Nothing. Really, not even the basic sort of secret-keeping tricks were deployed in this room; in most cases she’d be suspicious of someone with that little to hide, but Alice had always been straightforward.

“This is the fourth then?”

A cough confirmed the number.

“In how long?”

“Six weeks, give or take.”

“The Magpie’s been performing for twice that long, at least, so why would he begin stealing when he’s the obvious suspect?”

“Overconfidence?”

Phryne hummed in contemplation.

“He’s a conman. He likes a show, to misdirect, to mingle with the crowd before performing. He’s a perfect suspect. But this is too neat.”

“You think he’s innocent?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Phryne said. “There’s a great deal about him that I haven’t worked out yet. But finding more commonalities than just him will only help our case.”

Having determined that the bracelets were not in the room, she took a seat behind the desk. Pity there was no whiskey in the room.

“It wouldn’t do to miss the answer due to narrowing our sight,” Shore agreed. “If you could ask Constable Hurst to send up our first witness—I suspect we’ll be here for quite some time.”

Rose Van Houten was the first person they spoke to, followed in quick succession by the rest of the guests. A picture began to emerge, though in broad strokes it was as Phryne had said: Rose had been wearing the bracelets until shortly before the Magpie’s performance, nobody saw anything suspicious, they had no idea who could possibly have done it. After the fourth or fifth useless witness, Phryne decided she’d had quite enough—she called down for tea and sandwiches, then rubbed her temple.

“I cannot possibly face this story again without fortification,” she grumbled.

Shore’s investigative technique was… well, it was fine. It uncovered the answers they needed, and he didn’t seem easily deceived. He was just _slow_. She was not accustomed to slow. Careful and deliberate, yes, and serious for sure, but not slow; it made her impatient.

“You _could_ leave this to the professionals, Miss Fisher.”

She looked up sharply. “Not on your nelly! Alice will no doubt be beside herself, and I don’t leave my friends in these sorts of straights.”

Before Shore could argue, there was a knock at the door and their next witness let himself in. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with auburn hair and the confidence of a man who had been assured of his superiority since birth.

“Norf!” Phryne said, standing to cross the room and kiss the man’s cheek. “Inspector Shore, this is Marcus Fitzalan-Howard, Duke of Norfolk.”

“Ah, yes, we’ve spoken before,” Shore said. “Your Grace.”

Norf gave a booming laugh; he was a deeply affable man. “None of that, now. I’ve told you to call me Norf, same as everyone else. Fancy meeting you under these circumstances. Again.”

“The Duke was at the first theft,” Shore explained to Phryne.

“I do hope I’m not a suspect?” Norf said, grinning. “I can pitch a cricket ball like the devil himself, but I haven’t got a hint of subtlety to me.”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

Norf turned to Phryne imploringly. “Phryne, doll, you must tell the inspector to call me Norf. I can’t be having with all this ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Duke’ nonsense; there is a time and a place for the formalities, of course, but not in the eyes of the law.”

“In my experience, Norf, there’s no convincing men like Inspector Shore,” Phryne said, trying to repress a small smile.

Norf seemed to think for a moment, then gave another booming laugh. “I’ll just have to invite him to the estate. There will be a whole party of us this weekend. You as well, Phryne.”

“I’m afraid I’m on duty,” Shore objected.

Norf shrugged. “Very well then. But you will come, Phryne? It’s been far too long.”

“I’ll think on it,” Phryne said. “It will depend on the case.”

It would also depend on Jack’s feelings on the matter—with his arrival so new, it would perhaps be unfair to ask him to travel another sixty miles to spend the weekend in a castle and be hosted by her long-time casual lover. There was nothing between Phryne and Norf, aside from the mutual agreement that they were two attractive people who enjoyed sex and indulged in the experience when their paths crossed, but she could appreciate how it might make Jack feel uncomfortable. And as delightful as he was when he was uncomfortable, the line between amusing and unfair was rather thin in this case.

“The Magpie is performing, if that persuades you,” Norf said, smiling.

Well, that was interesting. Phryne shared a look with Inspector Shore.

“I will let you know tomorrow, Norf,” she said. “Take a seat, the inspector just has a few questions.”

“Terrible business,” Norf tutted, sprawling into the chair opposite Shore. “Poor Rose is distraught, and Alice is blaming herself. I’ll help however I can.”

His statement did not add anything new to their notes, but he did help confirm information they had already narrowed down. When the conversation was over he kissed Phryne’s cheek, repeating his invitation to Arundel that weekend. As he left the study, a servant brought in the tea and sandwiches Phryne had requested; it was invigorating, and she quickly ate her share and pushed the rest towards Shore. The man _picked_ at the plate; clearly he was not a man easily persuaded by food.

They continued the interviews, including the Magpie and Wren, but no more progress was made. The constables searching the house had found no evidence of the bracelets, and a search of both guests and staff had not turned them up either. It was nearly four in the morning when they were done, and Phryne did not fancy waiting for a taxi at that time of night, especially with the number of people leaving the party at once.

“Could I, perhaps, get a ride back to The Savoy?” Phryne asked Shore. “We can discuss the case—”

Shore raised his hand.

“I’ll happily give you a ride, if only because it will ensure I stay awake, but I do not want to discuss the case at this point. I’m still not entirely sure what the commissioner will say if I tell him a civilian has involved herself in my investigation.”

“Oh,” Phryne said blithely, waving a hand, “they do tend to object, but when I solve the case they keep those objections to themselves. It’s really rather convenient.”

Shore shook his head in disbelief.

“Miss Fisher, you are quite possibly the most perplexing element in this evening.”

“You know, inspector,” she said brightly, “that might be the nicest thing anybody has said to me tonight.”

Heading downstairs, Phryne gathered her stole from Marty and followed the inspector to his motorcar. The ride back to the hotel was quiet; Phryne was mulling the events over, somehow both tired from a long night and enthused at the prospect of a case. When they arrived at The Savoy she thanked the inspector for the assistance and gave him her room number in case he needed to reach her.

Heading inside, she rode the lift to the top floor and quietly eased open the door to the suite. It was dark, as she expected, and she slipped towards the bedroom. Jack was fast asleep; she paused for a moment, struck by the sight. He had come after her. She had _invited_ him to come after her. And the idea, weeks after the words had been offered, did nothing but delight her. Quickly undressing, she slid between the sheets. Jack huffed softly, arms reaching out in his sleep to draw her close. She sighed in contentment and fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack snored. Not often enough for it to veer from endearing and into irritating, just a soft, snuffling sound every few minutes that made Phryne smile. When she’d woken at nine she’d poked him good-naturedly, attempting to rouse him, but he slept… well, he slept like an exhausted man in the security of home. She hadn’t had the heart to continue her attempts to wake him; they had nowhere to be, and she could entertain herself.

And if entertaining herself took the form of watching him sleep, one leg insinuated between his and her chin on his chest, nobody would have to know.

She wasn’t ashamed of the indulgence—she had no time for that, and she’d waited far too long to be in this position—but the warmth and sentimentality flowing through her was unfamiliar enough that her first instinct was to guard it closely. She wondered how Jack would react if she confessed to such a thing. As if sensing her thoughts, he shifted, his exhaled breath rustling her hair and his thigh pressing between her legs. It was a completely innocent movement, but the sensation was delightful all the same; she rolled her hips to feel it again.

“Phryne?”

His voice was hoarse and languid and curious, exactly how she’d imagined him in the morning. It wasn’t fair, really; she’d built up some unattainable image of the man, and yet he was obtaining it without intending to.

“Morning,” she murmured, hooking her leg tighter around his and pressing closer, fingers running over the hard jut of his hip through his pyjamas. “Sleep well?”

“Think I’m still dreaming,” he replied.

“You are very much awake and in my bed, inspector,” Phryne purred, tilting her head up to press a kiss against his jaw. “And wearing far too many clothes.”

He chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated through her body; she rolled her hips again, the feel of his thigh against her cunt warming her gut, that pleasant state just before serious arousal. His arm tightened around her; her fingers flexed into his side in response, as if they could get closer than they currently were.

“You’ll exhaust me,” he grumbled.

“You’re fit, I’m sure you can keep up.”

To drive her point home she brushed her hand down his chest to rest on his cock, which twitched against her palm. She loved touching him like this; it was an indulgence, as much for her pleasure as his, and she’d refrained for so long. She kissed his neck again, scraping her teeth against his pulse point and licking the hollow at the base of his throat. His hand ran down her spine in response, leaving gooseflesh in the wake, resting on the curve of her ass.

“Do you know how long I wanted you to touch me?” she asked, still nuzzling his throat.

“I can guess,” he said dryly. “You were never exactly subtle.”

She huffed, hoping he couldn’t feel her smile.

“You specifically, Jack,” she corrected. “Not the handsome police officer who was apparently immune to my charms—”

“Believe me, I was well aware of your charms even if I had no intention of succumbing to them.”

She rocked her hips and squeezed his cock gently. He hissed at the contact, so she did it again.

“Is that what you did, Jack? Succumb to the temptations of a wicked woman?”

“Not wicked,” he said, eyes closed. “Meddlesome, perhaps. Mildly infuriating, certainly. More trouble than should fit in a Hispano-Suiza…”

“And what about you, Jack?” she countered, slipping her hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and running a single finger along the underside of his cock. “All smoldering eyes and perfect suits and so restrained it made me want to push you against the wall and have my way…”

He pulled her closer against him, his free hand tangling in her hair as he kissed her desperately; she tightened her legs in response, pulling him tight, seeking the weight of him against the ache of her. His fingers slipped over her arse and between her legs, fluttering against her opening and towards her clit; she gasped and moved again, relaxing her grip on his thigh just enough to give him better access.

“You’re so wet,” he growled, fingers pushing inside her; she moaned and rocked her hips in response, her hand still down his trousers, teasing his length with the brush of her fingers. “Phryne!”

Determined to make him feel as good as she did, she stroked and kissed and touched every inch of him she could reach—hand on his cock and lips on his neck and the press of their bodies from toe to head, fumbled and careless and desperate for more. The friction was exquisite, the closeness so tangled that she wasn’t certain whose gasping cries echoed in her ears, who reached the peak first; she didn’t, in that moment, care.

The touches slowed, but did not stop, until they lay together, limbs heavy, eyes drifting shut. Phryne could hear his heart beating against her ear, felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath her wandering fingers. The easiness of the moment was an intimacy that she didn’t often experience, not because it was unavailable but because she never sought it out; that it felt so natural was a testament to the depths of Phryne’s feelings. Eventually there was a knock on the door, and she sat up, reaching over Jack to grab his watch from the bedside table.

“Breakfast is early,” she said, trying not to laugh at the way Jack’s eyes shot open.

“Breakfast?”

“I ordered it for the room before I left last night,” she explained, risking the shakiness of her legs to climb from the bed and reach for pyjamas and dressing gown, “but I wasn’t expecting it for another fifteen minutes or so.”

“You are a marvel, Miss Fisher,” Jack said.

“And you are predictable, Jack.”

“You didn’t think so twenty minutes ago,” he said, rather smugly.

She laughed and finished dressing, making a point to sashay from the room; at the door she looked over her shoulder.

“Coming, _darling_?”

Really, the filthy look in his eyes held a distinct possibility of being lethal if she wasn’t careful.

“After you, Miss Fisher.”

Still laughing, Phryne headed towards the suite door. Coffee and toast would be just the thing, then she could fill Jack in on the previous night’s events. As much as she would happily spend the entire day in bed, this situation obviously bore further investigation; perhaps they could stop by whichever station Inspector Shore was from—she had his card somewhere—and go from there. She needn’t have bothered; she swung open the door and found not breakfast but the man in question on the other side, holding a briefcase in one hand and his hat in the other.

“Inspector Shore!” she said. “This is a surprise.”

“My apologies, Miss Fisher. May I come in?”

“Of course,” Phryne said, stepping back to allow him room. “Food should be with us soon, how can I help?”

Shore moved inside, walking towards an armchair and seeming to fold himself into it.

“I wished to continue our conversation of last night’s events,” he said, then held up the briefcase. “I’ve brought the files pertaining to the other incidents.”

“Oh, how marvelous,” Phryne said, closing the door and heading towards the chaise. “This will save us the trouble of tracking you down. Tell me, do you drink coffee, or should I telephone down and ask for tea as well?”

———

The promise of a hot meal—the first since a hurried lunch shortly after docking the day before—convinced Jack to get out of bed. He briefly contemplated a suit—one of which was still flung around the room from the day before, the others packed—but realised that he was in rather dire need of a hot bath before dressing for the day, and it would be a shame for the food to get cold before he had a chance to eat. A rumbling protest from his stomach settled matters, and he pulled on his dressing gown and headed into the large parlour area.

What greeted him was adamantly not food, and he immediately regretted his decision. Phryne was seated on the chaise, commanding the room despite the fact that she was wearing pyjamas and her hair was rumpled from their very recent activities; in the armchair across from her there sat a man, clearly there on some sort of official business. Knowing Miss Fisher, it was likely police business. He coughed to announce himself.

“Jack!” Phryne exclaimed, sounding both surprised and delighted to see him. It really was a remarkable skill. “This is Inspector Shore, with the Metropolitan Police.”

Right, well, not quite how he’d expected to cross paths with his English counterparts, but needs must. He smiled and crossed the room, extending a hand to shake.

“Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victorian Police Force,” he said, then gave Phryne a mock scowl. “Who is absolutely not here on official business, no matter what trouble Miss Fisher has managed to find.”

“You’d be proud of me, Jack,” she said, far too innocently. “There wasn’t a murder in sight last night.”

“And then, much like Cinderella, the clock struck midnight and chaos reigned?”

“Half past ten,” she pouted, “and it was a jewel theft, not murder.”

“You’re losing your touch, Miss Fisher,” Jack remarked, taking a seat on the chaise beside her.

She’d already turned her attention back to the poor inspector who did not yet realise what force of nature was barrelling his way.

“Don’t mind Jack, Inspector Shore. Best policeman in Australia, but surprisingly prone to grumpiness before breakfast.”

Jack rolled his eyes and tried not to wonder why what madness had led him to this point—sitting in his lover’s hotel suite that cost more than his weekly salary, and quite possibly his monthly one, seconds away from being roped into a case in a jurisdiction in which he had no authority, in his pyjamas. As if sensing his discomfiture—or perhaps in an attempt to increase it—she laced her fingers through his as she charged on ahead.

“Inspector Shore and I were just discussing the next element of this investigation.”

The police officer opened his mouth to protest; Jack funnelled all his honour and nobility into not feeling gleeful that it was some other poor sod on the receiving end for once, and almost succeeded.

“I’m not entirely certain that’s—”

“Nonsense. You saw how useful I was last night, and anyway Alice has officially hired me as a private investigator. Things go so much more smoothly if we cooperate.”

Shore glanced towards Jack, and Jack wasn’t certain if he was looking for guidance or an ally. Either way, Jack shrugged.

“Absolutely nothing you say will deter her, and at the very least it saves you the surprise when you find her in a compromising position.”

“Jack!”

She seemed genuinely surprised, at least a little; he took the opportunity to do something he would never do in Melbourne—he leant towards her, dropping his voice, and let his lips brush against her ear.

“If I let him know what an asset you are, Miss Fisher, he might wish to keep you.”

She gave a delighted smile, and flicked her eyes to his lips.

“Not a chance of that, Jack,” she purred, leaning closer. “I’m not nearly finished with you.”

Her dressing gown had slipped, just a little, and the lace hem of her decolletage drove any attempts at a witty rejoinder out of his mind.

“Good, Miss Fisher,” he managed, sounding only slightly strangled. “That’s good.”

“But first, perhaps we should…?”

“Right,” Jack said; there was a case, and Phryne’s ability to be distracted by a mystery could not be underestimated. “You’ll need to fill me in.”

Phryne did, with her usual combination of astute observations and convenient connections to the players at hand: diamond bracelets stolen, the fourth such incident in London in the past six weeks; the only connection found between all four scenes was the Disillusioned Magpie and his assistant; the various party attendees and a summary of their alliances and quirks. What wasn’t said was supplemented by case files Shore had brought with him, and he occasionally interjected commentary about the other incidents—the English policeman seemed blindsided by Phryne, but willing to accept her assistance, and that of the strange Antipodean detective that was apparently staying with her. Jack had to admit that the lack of questions was really rather welcome. Phryne was just coming to the end of her story—telling him about a man called ‘Norf’, who Jack could only presume was a member of the aristocracy.

“He’s invited us to the estate for the weekend,” she said brightly.

“Us?”

“Well, Inspector Shore—who cannot make it—and myself. But he’d have extended the invitation to you if he’d met you—I’ll telephone him directly and let him know that I will be accompanied.”

Her tone was too blithe, and too high-pitched for Jack’s liking.

“What, exactly, are you failing to mention, Miss Fisher?”

“Norf is an old friend. A like-minded gentleman, shall we say.”

That would explain it, and yet…

“And?”

She huffed. “And the estate may, possibly, be a castle that dates around the time of the Norman conquest, but it’s for a case, Jack. You can’t possibly protest?”

“And remind me again how this is for a case?”

“Well, our suspect is performing there. Norf is desperate to help, and giving us unprecedented access to the Magpie.”

Impeccable logic, he supposed, but he wasn’t willing to concede just yet. It wasn’t as if she’d ever genuinely doubt his assistance, but it was the principle of the thing. A bloody castle.

“Please at least tell me our suspect has a name aside from ‘The Magpie’, Miss Fisher, because I am struggling to see him as a viable threat.”

“Robin,” Phryne said, “and his sister is Wren.”

“I don’t suppose they have siblings named Kookaburra and Hoary-headed Grebe?”

Well, it was worth hoping for.

“There is a brother, apparently, but I doubt it.”

“Shame.”

“You’ll come then?”

An actual complication struck Jack, and he sighed.

“I am willing, Miss Fisher, but I fear my wardrobe may not be. And unless London tailors have made deals with the fae folk that would do the Brothers Grimm proud, I doubt a new one can be procured in a day, even with your influence.”

“Nonsense. Norf is the sort of fabulously wealthy that means he doesn’t much mind what anyone wears.”

“But I am not.”

“Don’t be absurd, Jack. You’ll be my guest, and nobody will question that.”

“Nobody will question why the private detective—having just witnessed a jewel theft beneath her nose—has arrived with an unknown man in wool suits that you yourself have declared marked me as a policeman—”

She laughed. “To be fair, Jack, I was mostly interested in getting you out of the suit and into the costume at the time, I cannot be held responsible for what I said.”

“The point remains…”

Phryne gave an irritated huff, which was as close to a concession as he could expect.

“The point remains that if you arrive as yourself we will likely tip off the thief and get nowhere,” she said.

“I am sorry,” he offered. He realised that their hands were still laced together, and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure I can find entertainment in London for the weekend. Perhaps Inspector Shore would even be so kind as to allow me to assist him on the London end of the investigation?”

Jack looked towards the other policeman, who was watching them. The man nodded.

“I’d be delighted, Inspector Robinson.”

“All sorted then.”

Her thumb stroked the back of his hand twice, an admission of vulnerability that she was unlikely to voice. It seemed absurd that after their reunion they would be pulled away so quickly, even if it was only for the weekend; Jack had to admit that he wasn’t precisely happy with the development. But whatever her touch confessed, her voice and expression were the same determined confidence as always.

“Absolutely not, Jack. You’ll just have to come as someone other than yourself.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Honestly, Jack, there’s not another motorcar for miles, will you _please_ drive faster?”

“I’m certain the local constabulary would disapprove,” Jack said, “and I’m _not_ certain we want to test our alliance with Shore on something so trivial.”

She made an exasperated sound and slumped into the seat, falling silent. Really, he was far more concerned about driving unfamiliar, twisting roads in dim light when the land was so hilly, and the heavy evening fog was adding to his trepidation. They’d been hours later leaving London than they had planned, between constructing his cover and liasing with the Met and falling back into bed mid-afternoon because they could—”It’s really all your fault,” Phryne had laughed afterwards, her fingers tracing over his chest, “being so distracting.”—and they would arrive at the castle well after dark. Occasional glimpses of the River Arun were silver flashes against the browns and greens of the landscape, adding to the eerie solitude of the drive.

“Turn left at the next crossing,” Phryne said eventually, disturbing the silence.

In the distance, Jack could make out the outline of a castle at the top of a hill, rising from the fog, and a few lights he suspected were the village that surrounded it; he took the turn as instructed.

“This cover,” he began, hesitating slightly; he knew the arguments backwards and forwards, and didn’t disagree. But it wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun weekend, necessity be damned.

“I don’t like it,” she said, not for the first time.

He sighed.

“It was your idea, Miss Fisher.”

“I don’t like it. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the best option available. As you pointed out, you’d never pass as the idly wealthy. And the house staff are an invaluable source of gossip, but they’d never talk to a guest. I have to use the resources available to me—”

“To us.”

“Yes, of course,” she said dismissively. “Really, I should have ditched my father and flown Mr. Butler to England instead, he’d be much more use.”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” he said dryly; she smiled.

“The point is, Jack, having you pose as a member of my staff gives us the most avenues for investigation. And it’s only for a few days. I have plenty of experience keeping my hands off of you to manage that,” she said, then sighed too dramatically to be sincere. “Though it will be a terrible burden.”

It was Jack’s turn to smile; as flattering as the thought was, he doubted she’d have a spare moment to lament the cover when she was in her full investigative vigour.

“I’m sure you’ll bear it with grace and dignity, Miss Fisher.”

“As always. There’s a little road coming up to the right—if you can see it, we’ll shave a good ten minutes off the drive.”

He did, and made the turn—the trees caused him to lose sight of the castle itself, and shortly afterwards the ‘road’ became little more than a pitted path. Rain earlier in the day had left a thick layer of mud, and he struggled to keep the car moving at a speed that was both safe and not so slow as to mire them in the mud.

“Have you been here often?” he asked, most of his attention focused on driving.

“Yes. Norf has a flat in London as well, but the estate is quite popular for weekend parties. The castle is full of the most modern luxuries, and has a fascinating history. The gardens are divine, if you get a chance to explore.”

“And Norf?”

The mud was getting thicker, and he pushed the accelerator; the car lurched ahead, finding traction on solid ground once more.

“You’ll like him, I think.”

“Are we remarkably similar?” Jack asked, remembering the last time she’d made such an assertion.

“Not in the least,” Phryne laughed. “But he’s gregarious, and kind, and—Jack, look out!”

He slammed the brakes; a bird fluttered inches away from the car bonnet. It didn’t fly off as if startled however, staying in mid-air before the car for a long moment. It was some sort of owl, pure white; after a moment it gave a single hoot and flew off into the trees. Jack exchanged a surprised look with Phryne, then began to drive once more, cautious of more wildlife lurking in the fog.

———

Phryne directed Jack to the hidden driveway that wound up the hill and into the private entrance of the castle; tall gates flanked by two lion statues were left open to receive the guests, and the gravel crunched beneath the wheels as they drove into the courtyard.

“The staff will park the motorcar and carry in most of the trunks, but if you fetch the red bag—”

“Phryne, I appreciate the assistance. But this is not completely unfamiliar territory—I spent more weekends than I care to remember playing the dutiful husband at these events. With slightly less nobility, but being the valet is almost an improvement.”

Phryne laughed; she was, she knew, fussing needlessly, but this was unknown territory and—to her surprise—she was hoping, very much, that it would go well. A great deal hung on it going well; she was not yet ready to contemplate the alternative.

Jack stopped the motorcar directly in front of the great stone staircase that led inside. Securing her cloche and pulling on lace gloves, Phryne quickly examined her armour and exited the vehicle; Jack picked up the bag and followed two steps behind. They were greeted by a servant who took Phryne’s recently redonned outerwear, and from a nearby room Norf came out, flanked by his younger sister Cassandra on one side and Alice on the other. Teaching Cassandra the rules of hosting had fallen upon Norf after the passing of their parents, but the lesson was yet to stick; Phryne suspected that Alice was having no better luck.

“Phryne, darling!” he exclaimed, kissing her cheek. “We were so worried you wouldn’t make it for dinner. How was the journey?”

“Muddy,” Phryne said, “but perfectly lovely.”

“Wonderful. Well, there’s an hour until dinner is served if you’d like to freshen up,” Norf said, then looked past her to see Jack for the first time. “I can have Betty assist you.”

He motioned to a young housemaid, beautifully turned out in a highly starched grey dress that did not fit her. Remembering Alice’s quiet warning that Norf was down staff once again, Phryne smiled brightly; some things could be worked to her advantage.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Phryne said. “Mr. Butler here is my jack of all trades, under these circumstances. Scandalous, I know, but he is a pillar of professional discretion, and well aware of my unreasonable demands. I would hate to inconvenience your own staff.”

Norf made a token protest, but acquiesced.

“At the very least allow her to escort you to your rooms,” he said.

“Of course,” Phryne smiled. “And if she could return to take Mr. B to his rooms once we’ve finished our business, that would be immensely helpful.”

Norf motioned for Betty to do so, and Phryne followed her up the stairs and into the guest wing. The room set aside for her was one she had used often during her visits; of a middling size, decorated in dark reds and hunter greens. Very typical of country home decor, but of such fine quality that it immediately made one feel comfortable.

“Betty,” Phryne said, “I’m sure you have plenty to attend to. If you could come back in forty-five minutes or so, Mr. Butler will be ready to see his own rooms by then.”

“Yes, miss,” the girl said, bobbing her head. “If you’re certain, miss.”

“Of course I’m certain,” Phryne said. “Off and complete your tasks, we’ll be quite alright.”

The girl scurried out of the room, and Jack looked at Phryne bemusingly.

“Deftly handled,” he said. “Though the poor girl will be released from service if your friend the duke hears she’s left a guest alone with a man. Even it is her own staff.”

“Oh no, not Norf,” Phryne shrugged. “He’s got enough trouble keeping staff without worrying about something like that.”

Jack rolled his eyes and began to unpack the bag he’d carried in with his usual efficiency; the sight was oddly disconcerting. Phryne poured herself some scotch—Norf’s attention of etiquette might be occasionally questionable, but the man did know his liquor.

“Nightcap?” Phryne asked.

Still unpacking the bag, Jack shook his head.

“No doubt the rest of your luggage will arrive shortly,” he said, “and imbibing with the upper crust won’t endear me to those below.”

Phryne wrinkled her nose, then waved it off.

“Very well then, if you insist,” she said, taking another sip of her drink and focusing on the matter at hand. “When I telephoned to accept Norf’s invitation, he said the magician and his sister won’t arrive until tomorrow, but I’ll join the rest of the guests for dinner. I’m not certain who has been privy to our magpie’s antics, but with any luck one of them will have information of use.”

Jack nodded in agreement, still unpacking the bag. Really, he was taking a ridiculous amount of time.

“Oh, leave that out,” she requested, spying a simple peach evening gown that would do for dinner in his hands. “And there should be a necklace as well.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher.”

The bow he gave was exceedingly sarcastic, and Phryne hid a smile behind her glass.A knock at the door announced the arrival of the rest of Phryne’s trunks, and Jack continued to unpack while Phryne absconded to the en suite for a bath before dinner. She continued to talk to him from the bathroom, idle details of people she knew were in attendance mostly. How Norf had never expected to become Duke, until his older brother was killed in the war and his parents in a motorcar accident several years later, and how ill-suited her was to the role; of Norf’s younger sister, who resented becoming hostess; how Phryne had befriended him, neatly bystepping the accompanying bedding.

“I’m beginning to think I should be concerned about this Norf,” Jack said as she rejoined him in the bedroom, toweling her hair; there was the wry self-deprecation she knew all too well on his face, even if he was mostly joking.

“I wouldn’t be,” she said. “He’s rich and charming, yes, and terribly good-looking, and a dab hand at cricket,” she crossed the room, laying a hand on Jack’s chest, then leant up to kiss the corner of his mouth, “but he’s no Jack Robinson.”

“Neither am I, at the moment,” he said, but she could sense his new easiness. “But your bags are unpacked, and you only have—” he checked his watch “twenty minutes until dinner. Best hurry, Miss Fisher.”

There was a knock at the door; the young maid, Betty, had returned as requested, ready to show Jack where he’d be quartered. He took his leave with a small bow and a muttered ‘miss’, and Phryne watched him leave, still not quite certain what had been odd about the evening. Either way, she had no time to dwell on it—there was an investigation to conduct, after all. Dressing quickly, she secured a comb in her hair and a lockpick in her decolletage and headed downstairs to dinner.

Norf had kept the gathering exclusive, at least by his standards—himself and his sister, of course; Alice and Phryne; four of Norf’s old school chums Phryne had crossed paths with before, named Bernard, James, Francis, and Oliver; and Rose van Houten of the missing bangles, and her sister Mary.

“All people who attended the first party,” Norf whispered in Phryne’s ear as he greeted her once more, “apart from Rose and Mary. Hopefully one of them can be of use.”

“Thank you,” Phryne whispered back. The low number of women to target would make the thief’s task more difficult than a larger party, but it was a starting point.

Smiling, she joined the others at the dining room table. The conversation was lively, and after the meal was complete they retired to a small parlour for music and drinks; Phryne was resisting the calls to join in a card game when one of the staff arrived with tea and coffee, and she did a double take. Excusing herself from the conversation, she crossed the room and snagged Alice by the arm.

“Isn’t that your man?” she asked quietly. “Marty?”

Alice nodded subtly. “I hired several temporary staff for the party, and when Norf found himself desperately short again I passed them along.”

“Is it as bad as all that?” Phryne asked.

“Between Norf’s reputation and Cassandra dragging her feet, I thought it expedient,” Alice said. “Heaven knows what we’d have found here otherwise.”

Well, that was peculiar. Still, the siblings had always been unconventional. Giving Alice’s arm a final squeeze, Phryne went to speak with another guest.

———

Jack followed Betty towards the servants’ quarters. They were remarkably pleasant; the furnishings were worn, but of good quality, and the bed was comfortable despite its narrowness. His own small trunk had been placed at the foot of the bed, and he began to unpack. Betty hovered by the doorway.

“Did you require anything else?” she asked hesitatingly.

Taking pity on the young woman, Jack gave her a warm smile; witnesses were so much more useful if they were at ease.

“The room is fine, thank you. But I could do with a cup of tea and something to eat. It was a long drive.”

“Of course. I can have a tray brought, or you are welcome to join us in the kitchens?”

“The kitchens will be fine,” he assured her, setting aside the unpacking for after the meal. “Lead on.”

Betty smiled nervously, and gestured for him to follow her. The corridors in this section were narrower than in the other parts of the house, the exposed stone almost chilly, but there were electric lights in the sconces. Betty noticed him looking, because she nodded to the lights.

“Arundel was one of the first great houses in the country to have electrical lighting,” she said. “The family updated the estate a few years back—my ma said there were workers here for years.”

Jack made a murmured noise of interest, and Betty took it as an opening to tell him the history of the castle—built by the Normans, hosted Empress Maud and Queen Victoria, the various legends that had sprung up over the years.

“There’s ghosts,” she said. “All the great houses have them, of course, but I’m always nervous when I go to the kitchens alone. They say a servant boy was beaten to death by the cook, many years ago, and you can still see him scrubbing pots.”

“Not,” Jack said, attempting to keep the skepticism from his voice, “how I would like to spend my afterlife.”

“Better than the woman who threw herself from the tower after being jilted, and walks the grounds to this very day,” Betty said, giving a small shiver. “And there’s a man in blue in the library, from the war.”

“Was the castle used as a convalescent home?” Jack asked, knowing several estates in England had been converted to hospitals.

“Oh, no, not _the_ war. The civil war, I meant. A cavalier, some say, but I don’t know much about that.”

“Ah,” Jack said, at a loss of what else to say.

“Then there’s the family ghost, of course,” Betty continued undeterred, clearly at ease with the subject. “An ancestor raised owls, and they say one appears when someone near the family will die.”

Unbidden, the image of the strange owl before the motor car sprung to mind. It was nonsense, of course, but better not to mention it to others. People were so deeply superstitious. And when Miss Fisher was around, there was always a chance of death. Betty had moved on to discussing the family history, a recitation of dukes and lords and who knew what; one of the family titles was—rather unusually—handed down to daughters as well as sons.

As much as she revelled in the history of the estate, her earlier nervousness had not completely abated. Eventually she slowed, hands wringing, and asked.

“Do you… do you often assist your mistress with her…”

“No, not at all. She has a lady’s companion in Melbourne, but Miss Williams is newly married and was unable to make the journey.”

Betty nodded, her face suddenly determined. “I could do it, you know. I haven’t been at the job long—my father is a cheesemaker in the village and my mother passed away several years ago and being in service is very new, but I can do it.”

“I’m sure you could,” Jack said. “Miss Fisher meant no offense.”

“It’s not right, all the same.”

“No, I suspect not,” Jack said. “But Miss Fisher is accustomed to having her own way and the freedoms that entails. And despite her station, she is…” he paused, trying to articulate his meaning without letting his cover slip, “she values her own abilities, very much. It is quite a lot to ask of someone who has other jobs to complete.”

Before Betty could reply, they arrived at the large kitchens, bustling with activity as the meal upstairs was due to start; making himself a cup of tea, Jack found a quiet corner and tucked himself away, content to observe.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating. I live in eternal, and possibly vain, hope that new chapters will be on a more consistent schedule. And if you have any interest and/or knowledge on the actual structure of these great houses and their staff need, I apologise in advance for the rage-induced headache this story will invoke.

The next morning, Jack was back in the kitchen. Many of the staff, both permanent and temporary, would pass through the room throughout the day, and it gave him an excuse to speak with them all. As far as he knew, Phryne was still in bed and his services were not required, so he made himself useful shelling peas; the repetitive action allowed him to focus on the various interactions. There was a clear divide between the regular house staff, the maids and valets of the guests who came to attend to their own employers, and the extra staff hired in London and brought in for the weekend—a dozen little alliances and rivalries had arisen within the groups. The head footman was married to the cook, but clearly had some sort of infatuation with an older chambermaid. Two maids brought by guests refused to speak to one another, moving through the kitchens as if the other did not exist. The London staff slacked off whenever possible, earning the ire of household and visiting staff alike. And all the while, Jack shelled and observed and wondered if Phryne had been a terrible influence on him. Most definitely, he concluded, but there was no denying the effectiveness of her techniques.

He had slept well enough the night before—not a patch on the Savoy or even his bed at home, but far from the worst place he’d laid his head—and there was something reassuring in the familiarity of an investigation, even if the specifics were far from his usual. A more cheerful man might, perhaps, even whistle while he worked. But there were some lines Jack Robinson would not cross, even undercover, and he continued shelling peas quietly.

Just before lunch there was a racket, several of the London staff members pouring into the room at once, talking amongst themselves.

“The Magpie’s arrived,” said one, a young woman with bright orange hair tucked beneath her cap.

The castle’s cook sniffed.

“That’s another for lunch then,” she said. “So nice of the master to inform me.”

“Oh, I don’t think he knew,” said the red-haired maid. “He certainly seemed surprised by the early arrival. And it will be two more, for his sister is here too.”

The cook sniffed again.

“Make yourself useful then, girl,” she ordered. “Help—” she gestured towards Jack.

“Mr. Butler,” Jack supplied, and wondered how the real man kept a straight face when introducing himself.

“Help Mr. Butler with the peas,” said the cook, turning away.

The red-haired maid rolled her eyes, but took a seat next to Jack and reached for peas.

“Claire Connors,” she said. “You were the late arrival last night?”

“Uh, yes,” Jack said. “Our departure from London was delayed.”

Claire shrugged, grabbing another pod.

“Still, at least you came down by motorcar. Us Londonders came down by train, then had to squeeze ourselves into a van.”

“How many of you came down from the city?” Jack asked.

“I reckon…” Claire did some internal counting, “seven?”

“Do you work for the duke in London?”

“Oh no. We’re all from an agency. Miss Walters-Cunningham recommended us, I believe.”

“I see,” Jack said. Miss Walters-Cunningham was Phryne’s friend Alice, as he recalled, hostess of the most recent party the thief had struck, and the inspiration for his current identity.

She was not, he decided as he moved from peas to potatoes, his favourite person in the world.

Claire forged ahead, talking about all the London staff members.

“There’s Jimmy, of course, and his brother Ted. Me and two other girls are here to help the lady guests, but they’ve all brought their own maids. Aside from yours, I mean—how queer to bring a man and not a lady.”

“Miss Fisher is newly returned to England, and has not had time to find a suitable companion.”

Across the room, the cook snorted.

“If you ask me,” she said, “the woman’s problem comes from finding too many companions. Did you know I once found her in Master Marcus’s bed, naked as a robin and singing Gilbert and Sullivan!”

Jack coughed in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

“ _Pirates of Penzance_?” he asked.

“ _HMS Pinafore_ , I believe,” the cook huffed. “And you’d do well to hide your amusement. It might seem well and good now, but scandal will stick to you as much as your mistress.”

“I’m sure the duke is entirely innocent in these matters,” Jack said levelly. “Perhaps I should encourage Miss Fisher to benefit from his fine example.”

Antagonising a woman with as much clout below stairs as the cook was a gamble, and not Jack’s most tactical decision. Beside him Claire laughed behind her hand, and Jack winked at her.

“That’s five,” he said to Claire. “You said seven came down?”

“Yes,” Claire said, dropping her voice. “Jimmy and Ted are playing footmen. The girls and I are in the kitchens, it seems, and doing whatever odd jobs. Then there’s Old Bill, who is the duke’s personal valet for the weekend, and Marty. He’s new and helping to serve.”

Jack filed this away, assigning names to faces. He was about to move the conversation towards the arrival of the magician when there was a commotion at the doorway. He looked up to see Phryne, impeccably turned out as always; her usual joyful expression was absent though, and she looked irate.

“Mr. Butler!” she scolded, her arms folded. “I expected you with the tea an hour ago.”

“Apologies, miss,” he said, not quite certain what she was playing at but willing to follow her lead.

“As you should. Hurry, I have matters to attend to,” she said, clapping her hands.

Then she turned and walked from the room, not bothering to look behind her to see if Jack followed. He stood, making his apologies to Claire for leaving. The cook, for all her irritation, had taken some sympathy on him and begun to prepare a tea tray and a small selection of biscuits. Then she looked at Jack and tsked.

“You be careful with that one, Mr. Butler. Some trouble isn’t worth having.”

Suppressing an eye roll and thanking her for the tray, Jack headed towards Phryne’s bedroom.

———

By the time Jack arrived at Phryne’s suite, she’d draped herself against the chaise lounge and affected an imperious air.

“Just there,” she ordered, gesturing a small table nearby.

To her surprise he complied with silent obedience, and she huffed. Really, if they were in this ridiculous position he could at least enjoy the absurdity of it. Dropping the game, she shifted to give him room on the chaise.

“Shall I pour your tea, Miss Fisher?” he asked, remaining standing.

She rolled her eyes and patted the space beside her.

“It’s for you, Jack. I’ve been fed twice today already, whereas no doubt you’ve been put to work in that dire kitchen. Did you know there’s supposed to be a ghost down there?”

“I’d heard the story,” he said dryly, perching on the edge of the seat.

“Still doubtful?”

“Immensely.”

“Well, either way, that’s not the point,” she said. “I didn’t turn up much last night. You?”

“I’ve learnt all sorts of details,” he said, peering at her over his teacup, “though I’m not yet seeing how your affinity for operettas will solve the case.”

It took Phryne a moment, then she began to laugh.

“Has Sally still not forgiven me?” she asked. “She’s one of the few members of staff who has survived Norf’s… unconventional attitude—I believe out a fondness for his late parents—and is under the impression I led the young man astray.”

“You must admit you do have a history of it,” Jack said, giving a small smile.

“I do,” she agreed. “Though it’s much better to have a willing participant.”

His smile became a smirk, a shift that was far more charming than she cared to admit.

“Is that what I am, then?”

“Something like that,” she said, then turned back to the case. “I told Shore I would telephone him this afternoon with an update, so if you do uncover anything before then…”

“I can hardly interrupt you.”

“Of course you can, Jack. A year of visiting my home should have taught you Mr. Butler’s tricks for officious, unobtrusive entrances,” she said, only then realising how rarely Mr. Butler had deployed that skill during Jack’s visits. How odd. “But if you’re incapable, just give me a sign and I’ll demand your presence.”

“I did wonder about that.”

“The kitchen? You now have the sympathy of half the staff and an excuse to leap to my demands.”

“I would have appreciated a warning that I’d be treated a step above a pet, Miss Fisher. It’s not a tack you take with your staff.”

“Are you offended?” she asked, surprised.

He sighed. “Not offended, no.”

“Unhappy though.”

“Not happy, at least. It’s fine. I’m just accustomed to at least a token protest before bending to your whims.”

“What rot! You’ve never bent to my whim unless it was what you wanted as well.” _And not even then, half the time_ , she thought but did not say. He arched an eyebrow, and she sighed. “And that’s the point. I’m taking advantage of you.”

He shrugged.

“Or not, which is an equal tragedy,” he said, and she laughed in surprise; Jack was an enigma, but it seemed that on the matter of _them_ he was unapologetically open in his desires, physical and otherwise.

“If it is any consolation, my actual plans for your arrival involved not leaving the hotel suite for three days. You’d have felt thoroughly taken advantage of,” she teased.

“I’m sorry to have missed that,” he said. His tone was equally teasing, but there was a sincerity in his humour that struck her more deeply than she’d anticipated, and she reached out with a single finger to trace the back of his hand; they were good hands, as big and calloused and soft as his heart.

“It’s not missed, just deferred,” she said. “At least until this case is over.”

“Ahh,” he said, “on that note, the Magpie and his sister have arrived.”

“That’s early.”

Jack nodded. “Shockingly impolite behaviour.”

It was, and there were two options—either the siblings were unaware of social conventions, or they were willing to subvert them. Given the pretense of the shabby costuming, Phryne had a suspicion it was the latter. Possibly irrelevant to the investigation, but it did give her an opportunity to speak with them. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—there was time to ravish Jack and still speak with them before lunch.

“You know, Jack,” she purred, moving closer, “I can think of something even more shocking.”

His lips parted as he shifted towards her; slowly, and the anticipation in built in her gut was almost worth the agony at not having his lips on hers instantly.

Almost, because she could _feel_ his breath when there was a knock at the door.

“Phryne?”

Jack stood instantly, all openness in his expression gone. He was, once again, Mr. Butler, or at least a decent facsimile. The shift left her more disconcerted than she cared to admit, and she coughed and smoothed her bob like a guilty schoolgirl caught by the headmistress.

“Yes?” she called out.

“It’s Alice, Phryne. May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jack quickly gathered the tea things onto the tray and stood straight, his expression blank as Alice entered the room.

“There you are, darling!” Alice exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “Norf’s been looking everywhere for you, though he’s gone out with the other men for the afternoon now—hunting, apparently, though I suspect the only thing they’ll catch is a cold—and Robin and Wren have arrived, and Cassandra’s nowhere to be found. They’ve gone below stairs to perform for the staff before lunch, at least.”

“How thoughtful of them,” Phryne said. “Mr. Butler, you must be eager to see the performance. Run along, I shan’t detain you any longer.”

Jack gave a small bow and silently retreated. Alice had flung herself dramatically onto Phryne’s bed, sparing the doorway a glance as Jack left.

“Do all butlers look like that in Australia?” she asked. “Between that and his professed competence, I’m beginning to consider the Antipodes myself. If nothing else it would be quieter.”

Phryne laughed.

“I’m afraid he’s a unique specimen,” she said. “Did you say it was time for lunch?”

———

Lunch was light and informal, or at least as informal as possible given their location. The men were absent, leaving only the female guests to entertain the Magpie and his assistant. The van Houten sisters were immensely pleased by the company—Rose introduced her younger sister, who was the spitting image of herself, to the magician and his assistant, gushing wildly about his performance the other night.

“Really, Mary, it was wonderful,” Rose said. “If it hadn’t been for the bangle incident…”

Mary clucked sympathetically.

“No doubt they found their way beneath a chaise or some such thing,” Mary soothed. “Do you remember when mother lost her best brooch, only for Echolls to uncover it weeks later in the pantry? It was the oddest thing, but no doubt Alice will find them one day soon and we’ll laugh about it.”

“It was very unfortunate,” the Magpie agreed, “but I’m sure your sister is correct, Miss van Houten. The police were very thorough and there was no evidence of anything more than an unfortunate loss. Terrible, but no doubt it will turn up.”

Rose seemed appeased by the comment, to Phryne’s surprise; really, the girl was shockingly naive, but at least the pretext would give Alice’s reputation some protection while Phryne investigated. Temporarily satisfied, Phryne took her seat at the dining room table. Norf’s sister Cassandra joined them a moment afterwards, her mind no doubt still in whichever book she’d been perusing that morning; the girl was sweet, but her late appearance and subdued demeanour highlighted the fact she was far too reliant on others taking on her hostess duties. This weekend, specifically, the duty had fallen upon poor Alice to ensure the contentment of other guests. Perhaps Phryne ought to speak with Cassandra—she was all in favour of women making their own choices, and perhaps some compromise of desires and duty could be reached with her assistance.

The meal was delicious and the conversation lively, the Magpie the very centre of attention. Phryne tried to draw out information about his past, but the best she could gather from his studied avoidance was that he’d been in the north of England in the recent past, and he did not care for people asking about things. Still, that was something to pass onto Shore when she telephoned him later. The sister, Wren, was once again attempting to blend into the dining room’s wood paneling, though she put on a good show when attention shifted to her. The only exception was when the soup was served, and she blushed furiously and kept her eyes on her lap when one of the staff hired from London—the young man who’d telephoned the police the night of Alice’s party—placed her bowl before her; it was curious, but Marty was an attractive young man, if far too young for Phryne’s own interests. Chances were good it was nothing more than an ill-timed infatuation.

After lunch it was suggested the women go motoring—they were only a few miles from the seaside, and the late autumn weather was unseasonably warm.

“It won’t be a patch on Australia, I’m sure,” Alice said, “but enjoyable nonetheless. And I know this darling tearoom that makes the most divine Victoria sponge.”

“Sounds delightful,” Phryne said decisively, ensuring all the present company would agree to come, “and I have no reason to compare England to Australia and find either lacking ”

The women dispersed to change into suitable clothing for a walk along the seaside—sturdy boots and sensible fabrics to counter the inevitable breeze off the sea—and then piled into the motorcar, ready for an afternoon adventure.


	6. Chapter 6

Returning to the kitchen, Jack found most of the staff gathered around a stocky young man and a young girl—the Magpie and his sister, Jack presumed. He spotted the red-haired Claire and Betty from the previous night amongst the small group. The only one who seemed unimpressed by whatever conjuring tricks were being performed—Jack caught a hint of a flourish and the crowd gasped—was the cook, who was loudly banging her wooden spoon against a pot as she stirred. Jack moved towards her, catching her eye as he set the tea tray aside.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s Sally, isn’t it?”

The cook nodded brusquely. 

“I answer to Cook just as quick,” she said. “The tray was…”

“Well received,” Jack assured her, which was almost entirely true—the biscuits had erred on the side of dry, but a hot cuppa and a biscuit were always welcome—even if it neatly evaded saying he’d been the one to have it. “Thank you.”

“I do mean what I said,” Sally said. “You seem a decent chap, and that Miss Fisher is… it’s not my place to speak ill of guests, but she’s caused no end of grief over the years. Always flitting from one thing to the next. Stick with her and you’ll be repaid for it with trouble, you mark my words, then one day she’ll grow bored of whatever nonsense she’s doing and you’ll be out of a job right quick.”

Jack felt his jaw clench, failing to appreciate the insinuation or the possibility it was true, but he quickly forced a smile. 

“Be that as it may, Sally, the pay itself cannot be beat. If Miss Fisher does decide to flit off, I’ll still be the richer for it. And she may surprise us yet.”

Sally tsked and stirred the pot a little faster.

“Thank you, again, for the tea,” he said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice, and moved towards the Magpie’s performance.

He was less interested in the conjuring than the conjurer; Phryne’s assessment of the man as a charlatan who encouraged people to underestimate him lingered in the back of Jack’s mind, and he found he could hardly quibble with its accuracy. He did not have the same interest in magic as Miss Fisher had, but he was very familiar with liars, and this man qualified. The sister, Wren, seemed far less happy to be going along with the act—she played her role beautifully, but when attentions shifted away from her she seemed to fall into herself, moving from foot to foot and glancing away from the crowd. Definitely the one to befriend for information; unfortunately, when the performance was done, both guests disappeared to join those upstairs for lunch, and Jack didn’t have a chance. 

Undeterred, he resumed his observations instead, performing tasks and sidestepping snide comments from the cook until it was nearing dinner time. He knew Phryne intended to telephone Shore before the evening meal and decided to seek her out before then—he had nothing of substance to add to the investigations as yet, but exchanging investigative notes would give them both a wider base of knowledge to work from. And if they had a chance to resume what they hadn’t started earlier… well, he certainly wouldn’t object. 

Phryne was not in the parlour where most of the guests were gathered—it seemed the men had returned from an afternoon of hunting, which seemed another way of saying they’d trekked through fields while drinking heavily and occasionally shooting at a partridge with no success—and one of the women indicated she’d gone upstairs to lie down for half an hour before dressing for dinner. Whether that was genuinely napping or simply an excuse to snoop in peace, Jack was uncertain; either way he headed upstairs and down the guest wing corridor in search of her.

There was no response when he knocked on her bedroom door, and it was locked; seeing as he did not secrete lockpicks about his person as a matter of habit, that was the end of the matter. He instead pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket—a habit he did keep, and found convenient—he quickly wrote a brief note and slipped it beneath her door; when he stood again he found their host exiting another bedroom.

“Mr. Butler!” exclaimed the host, then glanced at Phryne’s door. “No answer?”

Jack shook his head, and the duke sighed and grinned fondly as he walked closer.

“I swear I’ve been trying to catch Phryne all day, but she’s gone and found herself a curiosity.”

“A curiosity?”

“Oh yes. Nothing for you to worry about, old chap. I’m sure you know how she is—give her a shiny bauble to vex her mind and she’s off on a tear until she’s sorted it. I wasn’t the least surprised by that Lady Detective business.”

“Ah,” Jack said noncommittally; the comment was, perhaps, more astute from the duke than he’d expected given Phryne’s dismissiveness of their relationship. “If you’ll excuse me, your Grace—”

“Oh no, none of that! Phryne’s terribly fond of you, I insist you call me Norf.”

There seemed to be no pretense in the invitation, despite the deeply unconventional nature of the request. 

“I’m not certain that would be wise.”

“Of course it is,” Norf said, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “From what she’s said you’re more than a member of staff, and any friend of Phryne’s is a friend of mine. Tell me, do you have any interest in history? We have some fascinating items I’d be happy to show you….”

———

It was early evening by the time Phryne and the rest of the guests returned to the castle, cheeks flushed and hair tousled by the wind. They were greeted at the door by several maids and members of staff; Phryne found herself craning her neck in search of Jack, hoping to catch sight of him, but without luck. Alice clearly noticed though, because she arched an eyebrow in Phryne’s direction; Phryne gave a tiny shake of her head, hoping it would defer her questions until a later time. Which it did. Unfortunately for Phryne, the “later time” was ten minutes later in the parlour, when Alice backed her into a corner.

“What is the deal with your man?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Having him come from Australia was odd, but not beyond the quirks of the wealthy. Having him come along this weekend and act more like a maid than a manservant was odder. That, though? You were looking for him just now, and disappointed not to see him.”

“I wasn’t disappointed,” Phryne countered. “I was wondering where he’d gone, because he is not living up to his usual standards. Did you know I had to retrieve my own tea this morning?”

“Did you know that you are a terrible liar?” Alice said. “Your voice goes all…” she made a motion with her hands. “Really, Phryne, we’ve been friends for years. There’s no harm in dallying with the help, and I’ve never known you to hide your lovers.”

“He’s not—” Phryne pressed her lips together, trying to find a solution; she couldn’t bring herself to lie to Alice, who was very dear to her, but the investigation came first. “Discretion is rather important in his position.”

“And how long have you… been discreet?”

“Not very long at all,” Phryne said, a tiny smile escaping despite herself. “The anticipation was half the fun.”

Alice shook her head, smiling.

“If you’re looking to be discreet,” she said, “perhaps you ought to _be_ discreet?”

“You’re the only person who has noticed.”

“I’m the only person who has remarked on it,” Alice clarified. “And perhaps you’ll be lucky, but the van Houten girls are sharper than their behaviour suggests, and the men are all… aware of your proclivities. I presume you have some understanding with Mr. Butler and a proposition won’t deter you, but…”

“I appreciate the warning,” Phryne said; she wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but she was very interested in changing the topic as soon as feasibly possible. And if she had to pull a card from her sleeve to do it, she would. “Speaking of discretion, how is it you’ve become the de facto hostess of this weekend?”

Alice glanced away. Interesting.

“Cassandra dislikes the task, and I arrived first. I know the property well enough, it was no trouble.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about Norf’s personal situation.”

Alice glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice.

“His finances have recently required some… shoring up, shall we say. The property itself is fine, but he’s been indiscriminate with his personal spending—not just the parties, you know he’s always been overly generous—and the rumours coming out of America… I was in a position to assist, so I did. You know how he cared for Eddie.”

Phryne nodded; she’d suspected but never confirmed that Alice’s fiance had been cared for with funds from Norf’s own pocket. They’d been friends at school, along with Alice’s brother George, and Eddie’s own funds had been relatively meagre; an anonymous benefactor had ensured him the best medical treatment available for shellshock, though it had done very little in the end. She felt an utter heel for raising the question, but was also aware that financial difficulties were, quite possibly, the best lead they’d uncovered so far. Money troubles led to all sorts of poor decisions, in Phryne’s experience.

“Just so long as you know,” Phryne said. “I would hate for him to take advantage of your friendship, however unintentional.”

“No advantage,” Alice assured her, then smiled. “Besides, if we entrusted the hosting to Cassandra you know we’d be left to our own devices.”

Phryne laughed, and the conversation turned towards other matters until Phryne made her excuses—she had a telephone call to place before dinner. 

———

“Miss Fisher!” Shore said, his voice tinny over the telephone line, his tone intentionally jovial and unintentionally condescending. “How is your weekend? Is your head filled with dancing and balls and pretty gowns?”

“What, precisely, do you think the upper class do on these weekends?” she asked, exasperated. Admittedly, yes, there were dancing and dinner gowns and all manner of frivolities, but he made the whole thing sound ridiculous; she knew Jack felt some of the conventions—and occasionally the lack of conventions—of high society were absurd, but he never made it feel like a personal criticism. And he wasn’t entirely wrong, so she found his grumbles more endearing than anything. Not, she decided, that such a thought would go further than the small telephone alcove she’d tucked herself into to place this call. There _were_ limits to this sort of thing. 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Fisher,” Shore laughed. “I spend my days tracking criminals, not rubbing elbows with our country’s elite.”

Phryne rolled her eyes; it was remarkable how quickly this sort of humour wore thin.

“Well, rubbing elbows with our suspects is how I have new leads. I presume you don’t?”

“An unfair assumption.”

“But accurate,” Phryne said. 

Shore coughed. “Yes, well…”

“Fortunately for the investigation, I have had more success,” Phryne said brightly, aware she was possibly overselling the value of her discoveries. “Have you made inquiries in previous locations the Magpie has worked?”

“Previous locations?”

“Well, he hardly sprang from nowhere in the past three months. I do presume you’ve realised he’s working his way down the country—he was in York recently, and Edinburgh before that. What did the local police have to say on the matter?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t spoken with them,” Shore said. “All my attempts to uncover his previous haunts were neatly evaded.”

“Well, as luck would have it, I possess a knack for inveigling. York was most recent, Edinburgh was eight to twelve months ago at a guess. You can thank me later.”

“If this leads to new information, you’ll be the first to know,” Shore said. “Is there anything else?”

Months of working with Jack had her opening her mouth to mention Norf’s financial troubles—it was likely unimportant, but a full picture was essential—but she quickly stopped herself. Like it or not, Shore was not Jack, and Jack was not the law in this situation. Best to keep it quiet. She would pass the information on to Jack when she spoke with him, as he was in a position to make enquiries, but there was no point informing Shore until he had truly proven himself. And possibly stopped with the jokes.

“Nothing of importance,” Phryne said, “though I’ve not managed to speak with Jack this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes, how is the inspector? Pleased with his accommodations?” Shore asked, his tone making it clear he was quite happy to be far away from proceedings.

“A consummate professional,” Phryne replied, “not that I ever expect anything less. If you have nothing else to pass on, I do have a dinner to prepare for.”

“I have a dozen cases on my desk, Miss Fisher. I’m quite happy to leave matters to you for the moment.”

“Excellent! I’ll telephone you again tomorrow. Is the same time agreeable to you?”

“I look forward to it, Miss Fisher.”

Slightly mollified, Phryne said her farewells and hung up. A quick glance at the grandfather clock told her that she would be hard-pressed to snoop before dinner, so she headed up the stairs towards her rooms. If she was quick, she might be able to squeeze in some subtle poking around guest rooms. Taking the steps two at a time, she soon reached her rooms. Swinging open the door, she caught sight of a folded sheet of paper—notebook sized, so she knew instantly it was from Jack—and stooped to retrieve it.

> _No luck as yet. Will remember morning tea._

She tried to suppress a smile at his familiar scrawl, and turned the paper over; a soft laugh escaped her when she saw he’d written S.W.A.K. on the back. _Sealed with a kiss_. An unexpected sentiment, one Phryne associated more with ardent young men than sombre police inspectors; the idea made her feel oddly giddy, and she sat the note on her vanity and moved to the en suite to draw a bath. It was still there when she emerged twenty minutes later, and she read it once more before heading towards the wardrobe.

It was in moments like this she missed Dot the most—not just her knack for producing the right outfit and accessories, but in her friendly conversation and insightful commentary. Picking a russet-coloured gown with glass beading, Phryne set about dressing for dinner. Gown, powders and lipsticks and perfume, a silver comb tucked into her hair. The last step was the jewelry, something shiny to catch the Magpie’s eye. She opened her jewelry box, an elegant cherry construction, and shifted through the pieces she had brought with her. Her fingers paused over the swallow pin—it was neither flashy nor expensive enough for her purposes, but she hadn’t been able to leave it behind in London—before selecting an ornate silver ring and matching earrings, and a diamond and pearl brooch. Checking her reflection once more, she donned a smile and headed down for dinner.

After the meal, the small party returned to the parlour. The Magpie and Wren, as they had at Alice’s party, mingled for a few minutes—a flower produced from behind a handkerchief, a sleight of hand that produced a card from the deck, simple tricks that amused the observers. When the performers reached Phryne and Alice, the Magpie smiled with insouciant charm, bowing and kissing both Phryne and Alice’s hands, then rose with a flourish and produced a soup spoon.

“I borrowed this from our host,” he said, though even at a distance Phryne could tell the silverware pattern did not match Norf’s. “With nothing more than the power of your minds, it can be bent. Please, focus on spoon and imagine it getting warmer, bending, until—” he moved his hand slightly and the spoon began to bend, “presto!”

Alice expressed her delight, and Phryne murmured appreciation. It was a simple trick, but effective. And made even more effective by the roguish wink the Magpie gave them.

“Perhaps I will require your talents later, ladies,” he charmed. “If you’ll excuse me, it is time for my performance.”

He bowed deeply and moved off; once he was gone Phryne subtly checked her jewelry was still in place. Satisfied it was, she followed the Magpie’s movements. He didn’t speak to other guests as he and Wren set up; while the audience waited, staff members moved through the room with hors d'oeuvres and drinks. There was still no sign of Jack, which was not completely unexpected given his note; Phryne snagged a champagne coupe from a passing tray and downed it quickly, placing it on the next tray to circulate the room.

The Magpie began his performance, calling Alice to the front to lift a wooden box he’d set on a pedestal. Phryne made a note of Alice’s jewelry and watched her closely as she strode to the front of the room, demonstrating the lightness of the empty container. Then she stepped back as a purple cloth was laid over the box and the wand waved, before she was asked to lift it once more. Alice stepped forward and removed the cover, but struggled to lift the once-light box; Phryne knew it was done through the use of magnets, but she had to admit that it _looked_ impressive. And she barely noticed when Wren switched the magnet off once more with a subtle movement of her foot; the box was immediately light once more. Alice blushed and bowed, then returned to Phryne’s side, jewelry still in place.

“You have a future in magic,” Phryne teased, holding her hands out to welcome Alice back. “Perhaps we ought to call you the Great Egret.”

Alice rolled her eyes, then paused.

“What happened to your ring?”

Confused, Phryne looked to her hand, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach as she realised the ring was gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

Phryne stared at her ringless hand for a moment, trying to make sense of its disappearance; it had been in place when the Magpie had walked away, and she hadn’t noticed anyone near enough to have removed it afterwards. 

“Should we—” Alice whispered.

“No,” Phryne said hurriedly. “No, there’s no need yet.”

“Your ring is gone!”

“Shh,” Phryne hissed.

“Phryne—”

“Alice, trust me.”

“You planned for this?”

Phryne nodded. Admittedly it hadn’t gone quite as she’d anticipated, but that was not a point to dwell on.

“To catch a thief, there must be something to steal,” she said. “If you circle the room, see if any of the other women have been targeted—quietly, I will add—I will pursue other lines of inquiry.”

Alice nodded in agreement. The Magpie and Wren were still performing, a levitation trick this time, and Phryne used the distraction to slip towards the door and out of the parlour. In the quiet corridor she paused to regroup, leaning against the exposed stone wall. This was the point of an investigation when she would usually discuss the evidence gathered so far, often with Jack. And while she did not have the familiarity of his office desk or her parlour with whiskey and draughts available to her, the man himself was still there. Pushing off the wall, she headed down towards the staff quarters.

The corridors were almost eerily silent, and as Phryne reached the rooms assigned to staff, she was uncertain which door would lead her to Jack; it was strange to realise that he was _less_ accessible here than at home—it seemed he was always in his office or her home, though she did have the telephone number of his bungalow in case of an emergency (and he had been very specific about the nature of the word ‘emergency’ when he’d supplied it, fairly early in their acquaintance and with not near as much resistance as he would have liked to believe.) Still, such a thing had never deterred her before; she knocked briskly on the first door, then the next, until eventually her attempts were rewarded. A young woman—Betty, she thought, the one who’d escorted Phryne to her rooms the day before—answered.

“Hello,” Phryne smiled; her brusqueness in the kitchens that morning had served a purpose, but there was no advantage to being cruel. “I do hate to pester you, Betty, but could you direct me to Mr. Butler’s quarters?”

Betty blinked slowly, clearly processing the oddness of the interaction, then motioned to a door further along and on the opposite side of the corridor.

“His room is there,” she said, “but I don’t think he’s indoors. During dinner he was talking of wandering up to the keep this evening, and I haven’t heard him return.”

“Ahh,” Phryne said, glancing down the corridor quickly. “And you? It seems quite early to have retired.”

Betty blinked again.

“Headache, miss. I wasn’t required, so…”

“Perfectly understandable,” Phryne said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, then.”

“It’s no trouble, miss,” Betty said. “If you’ll pardon me…”

“Please, go. Sleep well, Betty,” Phryne said, then dropped her voice. “And if, perhaps, we could keep my presence here a secret…?”

“Of course, miss,” the girl said, giving a quick bow out of habit before closing the door, leaving Phryne alone in the corridor once more.

The keep. Well, it made some sense—the keep was one of the oldest parts of the castle, barely used by the family but kept in good repair due to historical interest, and gave a beautiful view of the surrounding farmlands. An ideal place to slip away to be alone. And surely Jack wouldn’t mind a _little_ company, if it was her. She smiled and began to make her way through the castle in a hunt for Jack Robinson.

———

The moon was just shy of full, heavy and yellow in the nighttime sky. Jack breathed deeply, taking in the crisp freshness of the autumn air, and leant forward against the ramparts to get a better look at the grounds. Norf’s tour of the castle had been enthusiastic, if overwhelming; Jack was not accustomed to being introduced to centuries of history as if they were minor curiosities. “These are the apartments renovated before Queen Victoria came to stay.” “Oh, those artifacts belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots.” “That portrait is the third Duke. He was uncle to both Catherine Howard and Anne Boleyn, you know. “ Jack had passed the apartments where Empress Matilda had stayed nearly 800 years before as he’d climbed the stairs to the keep. It was… fascinating, of course it was, but it was also a lot to reconcile.

He forgot, sometimes, that Phryne was as much of this world as she was of the streets of Collingwood. That while she would never say so, a relationship with a detective inspector was very much slumming it. He doubted it would make an actual difference to her—she was both loyal and undeterred by other people’s opinions—but it was not a pleasant reminder all the same. And after Norf’s implications… well, the silence and wide open spaces of the keep were very welcome indeed.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stayed up there when he heard her quiet approach.

“Good evening, Miss Fisher.”

“The wind is blowing the wrong way for you to have caught my scent, Mr. Butler,” she said in teasing exasperation; this was familiar territory, and he turned to look at her with a smirk.

“Your shoes echoed on the stairs,” he said.

“Well, I wasn’t really trying to sneak up on you,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “Though it would have been nice.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped closer, angling her face up flirtatiously. Jack reached out to draw her closer, but as his hands reached the exposed skin of her back, she gasped and jumped away. His confusion must have been evident, because she smiled.

“Your hands are cold,” she explained. “How long have you been out here?”

He glanced at his watch.

“An hour or so?” he guessed.

She nodded and stepped close once more, wrapping her arms around his waist. His behaviour had piqued her curiosity, he could tell, but she said nothing, just held him close. His cold hands hovered for a moment, uncertain where to land, then settled against her silk-covered hips.

“You know, I almost didn’t recognise you,” she said, eyes fixed at chest level.

“No?”

“No fedora, no coat, the cut of your suit…” she trailed off. “But there is no mistaking your lean.”

“My lean?”

“Mhmm. It’s endearingly distinctive.”

“Not a compliment I’ve been paid before, I will admit.”

She laughed softly and looked up once more.

“Why are you out here?”

Jack shrugged. “I wanted the fresh air.”

“For an hour?”

“I was thinking.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Not particularly,” he said. “Your friend Norf gave me a tour of the castle.”

“Ahh,” she said uneasily. “And now you’re wondering…”

“No. No, I like to think I know you well enough not to doubt. No, it was just… illuminating. He seemed to know you well, and clearly thinks highly of you.”

Too highly, in some regards, even if it wasn’t Jack’s place to think so.

“I’m not sure why that’s a surprise.”

“It’s not,” he assured her. “You are very easy to think highly of.”

“Do you—” her hand slid from his waist to cup the front of his trousers “—think highly of me?”

Rather than reply he spun them both, their hips flush and his back against the stone wall; she laughed in surprise, her hand still on his cock.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” she purred, giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Did you doubt my regard?” he asked, voice gravelly; it was meant as a joke, but her eyes softened and his heart seemed to cease beating as she leant closer.

“Never, Jack,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.

They kissed for several moments, soft, teasing little caresses rather than something more prurient, hands roaming, mingled breaths and smiles; it was absurd, really, how something so simple could fill him with contentment. It had been… a long time.

Eventually she broke away, smiling broadly.

“You, Jack Robinson, are a terrible influence,” she laughed. “I came to discuss the case.”

“Me?” he asked incredulously. “I made one comment and you had me against the wall.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“Give me one reason I should have refrained.”

It was, he had to admit, a rather good point; he should, as a matter of principle, mount an objection, but she was looking at him so openly he couldn’t actually think of one, never mind articulate it.

“That’s what I thought, Jack. Now, about the case….”

She quickly filled him in on her day’s investigation—the telephone call to Shore, who was quickly wearing away any good will he’d curried by allowing Phryne onto his case by being odious; the little she’d uncovered of the Magpie’s past; the revelation that Norf had run into financial difficulties.

“That does clarify a few things,” Jack murmured, and she looked at him in surprise. He sighed. “During the tour he seemed to be insinuating that he was in search of a wife, and singing your praises. All the freedoms that would accompany being married to a duke, the convenience of Arundel’s location, how his expectations of a wife did not extend to fidelity…”

Phryne nodded. “Hence you brooding in the dark.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Jack objected. “I was contemplating how tempting the offer might be.”

“Not at all,” Phryne said decisively, “and I don’t expect the offer was ever intended for me.”

“No?”

“Norf and I have always been very clear about our dalliance, and my opposition to marriage. I think it’s far more likely he’s considering betrothal to Alice.”

“Alice? Are they—”

“Not that I know of,” Phryne said hurriedly. “But they’ve been good friends for years, she’s been assisting him with hosting and with finances, he understands her… past romantic history. I’m not sure if she’d say yes, but there would be worse arrangements if they were both inclined. Marriage is very much a business in these circles.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“It’s not for me, but if everyone is happy with the arrangement it stands as much hope of success as eloping because a man knows how to waltz,” Phryne said with a roll of her eyes, “and despite everything, those two seem happy with their lot.”

“Thanks to you, Miss Fisher,” he said, giving her fingers a soft squeeze.

She smiled wryly, a slight tension appearing in her shoulders. “I’m not certain that was the right call, to be honest.”

“Still not a telescope,” he reminded her, just to see amusement blossom across her face.

“Still not a compliment,” she teased back, but he could see her shoulders relax. “But the less I think of them this weekend, the happier I will be. And besides, I’m far more concerned with how someone picked my ring right off my finger without my notice.”

Blinking twice, Jack shook his head.

“You didn’t think to mention that before now?”

“I was getting there.”

“This century?” Jack asked, doubtful.

“Most likely,” she said flippantly. “Whoever did it was very smooth.”

“The Magpie?”

Phryne shook her head.

“I can’t see how. He and Wren were both performing—I checked after they’d been nearby and it was still on my finger, and must have disappeared later.”

“Another guest, then.”

“Or a staff member, but I don’t recall anyone being that close. And we’ve been over the files—nobody but the Magpie and his sister have been at all four scenes.”

“Could the cases be unconnected?” Jack asked, though it was doubtful—Inspector Shore had checked the police records going back five years and could find no other incident that matched the description.

“I don’t see how, but I can’t rule out the possibility.”

“And you really didn’t notice anything?”

To her credit, she didn’t _voice_ her incredulity, merely looked at him as if it was the most ridiculous question she’d ever heard, which it very well might be.

“Not a thing.”

The discussed the situation for several moments, considering and discarding investigative tactics. Without concrete evidence, they were essentially treading the same ground again and again, getting no closer to the truth. But despite the frustrations, it felt _good_. It had been almost two months since they’d investigated together, and the easiness with which they’d fallen back into it—with, admittedly, far more intimate touches than they once had—was… familiar. Welcome. Vaguely dangerous, knowing Phryne. But it was right.

She was describing her ring once more—silver, ornate, Jack would keep an eye out for it below stairs and make some subtle inquiries amongst the staff—when she shivered, and Jack realised her thin gown was no match for the autumn night, even if it was unusually warm.

“The other guests must have noticed you missing by now,” he said.

“Let them miss me.”

“Miss Fisher…”

He didn’t need to voice his objections, because they both knew what they were—blending into the crowd was essential under the circumstances, and the more she mingled the more likely they were to uncover a lead. And they were in desperate need of a lead.

“Must you be so reasonable, Jack?” she pouted, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “It’s terribly unbecoming in a man.”

Before he could formulate a response—her lips were soft and her perfume intoxicating and every inch of his skin craved hers—she stepped away.

“If you uncover anything,” she said, “you know where I am. And if not, I will see you in the morning.”

Jack nodded dumbly, pretending to himself that he was not a grown man tongue-tied in the presence of the woman he loved, and she headed back towards the stairs. She paused at the top, glancing over her shoulder to give him a wink and a wave.

“And don’t forget the tea.”

———

The Magpie was still performing when Phryne rejoined the party in the parlour, and she moved to Alice’s side once more.

“Nothing else is missing, as far as I can tell,” Alice said quietly. “Should we telephone the police?”

“Out here?” Phryne asked, as if they were in the further reaches of Mongolia rather than 60 miles out of London. “No, I’m sure the local police have never had cause to investigate more than a missing moggie or a stolen apple, they’d be of no use.”

“Well, you can’t leave it unreported.”

“It’s not unreported,” Phryne said lightly. “I’m aware of it, and I’ll be sure to pass the details on to Inspector Shore next time I speak with him.”

“Next time you speak with him?” Alice asked.

“Of course! You didn’t think I’d leave this matter unresolved, did you?” Phryne said, then dropped her voice even further and leant in. “And if Shore ever asks, you hired me to investigate.”

“You _lied_ to him?”

“I merely circumvented his objections with a judicious use of the truth.”

Alice shook her head.

“There are days, Phryne, when I think you ought to have been called to the bar.”

Phryne gave an exaggerated shudder.

“I work much better outside the confines of the law, darling,” she said breezily. “Not unlike our thief. Though perhaps with a greater goal in mind.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s why we’re friends,” Phryne laughed.

Across the room, the Magpie completed his performance. Phryne grabbed a champagne coupe from a tray that had been set on a sideboard, and smiled slightly.

“I think it’s time to continue this investigation,” she said, taking a sip and heading into the fray.

An hour later, as the evening was winding down, Phryne felt no further ahead than she had been; a small setback, but perseverance would no doubt pay off eventually. Norf came loping over, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I’m certain I have handkerchiefs with more material than that gown, Phryne,” he teased, running his eyes over her body.

She knew this game all too well. One of them would raise the challenge, the other would counter, and soon enough they were stumbling into bed, laughing, clothes strewn around the room. There would be no reprimand if she declined, any more than she would reprimand him for the same, but she was keenly aware of the expectations all the same. She had to decline, definitively and without casting suspicion on her reasons; in a move that was either genius or madness, she latched onto the only thing that sprang to mind.

“Norf, darling, you know I’m always eager to renew our acquaintance, but perhaps another time?” she said, dropping her voice to a barely-perceptible whisper. “The monthly visitor, you know.”

“Ahh,” Norf said, glancing away. Really, it was an inescapable fact of life, not an embarrassment. “Another time, then.”

She kissed his cheek and left the room, and tried not to think of the man she didn’t have in her bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my massive delay in responding to comments. I read and adore them all, but real life has been rather demanding. ♥

Phryne woke early, with a half-remembered dream in her head and a throbbing ache between her legs; the physical was easily sated, aided by the memory of fingers tracing down her neck one clear afternoon, uninterrupted this time. Neck, clavicle, underside of her breast; her fingers against her clit sped up. All the promise his smile had held brought to fruition in her mind until she gasped and rocked and eased the tension. Slumped against the pillows, limbs still trembling, she wondered when even her fantasies had begun to focus on Jack. She’d been with more attractive men. With men with more intense chemistry, or more experience, any number of advantages really. And it wasn’t that those encounters had lost their appeal, as such, but there was a newly-found freedom in having Jack, truly having him, that was hard to resist. She rolled over, burying her face against her pillow to stifle her groan.

Being in love might very well kill her.

When she’d sufficiently recovered from her endeavors, she went to the en suite to wash her hands and face—a proper bath could wait until after breakfast. Then she rang the bell to call for the tray to be brought to her rooms, and returned to bed to read a novel until it arrived. She was quite engrossed in the murder mystery when there was a knock on the door, and she laid the book aside and called for them to enter.

It was Jack, and she tried to hide the smile that flashed through her.

“You remembered,” she said archly.

“Yes, miss,” he said smoothly; she cocked her head at the formality, quickly explained when he stepped aside and revealed one of the other servants with a second tray. Oh. Well, this should be fun.

“Just put it on the table,” Phryne directed, looking at the girl. Betty, she remembered; Phryne’s knack for remembering names had always served her well, and this was no exception. “It’s fortunate I am hungry this morning.”

Betty bobbed up and down quickly, radiating a nervous energy.

“Yes, miss. Cook said she’d made this all especially.”

“Then I should be cautious of poison,” Phryne said with a smirk, glancing towards Jack; instead of sharing in the joke his face remained impassive. Well, there was nothing for it; she dug into the meal with enthusiasm, smiling at Betty and waiting for her to speak.

Betty instead looked towards Jack, clearly struggling to speak in front of him.

“Mr. Butler? Would you please set out my clothes for this morning—trousers, I think, and that scarlet blouse.”

“Yes, miss,” Jack said, setting the tray on a table near the door and moving towards the wardrobe.

Phryne gave Betty a small, friendly smile.

“I wonder,” she said, “whether you could help me?”

“I can try, miss.”

“I’m looking to procure a hat. Is there a milliner in town?”

“Several, miss. What sort of hat?”

“A fedora,” Phryne said; on the far side of the room Jack’s actions stuttered, just for a second, confirming he was listening. Good; it would be so much easier than retelling events later. “As a gift. It could wait until I’ve returned to London, but the event is quite soon and I’d rather ensure it’s done now than rush later.”

Betty thought for a moment.

“Any of the shops would serve the purpose,” she said, “but I would suggest you begin with Montrose’s at the top of the main street.”

“How wonderful! Thank you, Betty,” Phryne beamed. “You are a treasure.”

“Thank you, miss,” the girl said quietly, stepping closer. She looked towards Jack once more, and seemed content he wasn’t listening. “Mr. Butler said that you’ve had a ring go missing?”

Phryne nodded, staying quiet and trying to appear safe; the girl was remarkably skittish.

“I have. It’s silver, about this big—” Phryne demonstrated the approximate size and shape, “and is set with diamonds. Have you seen it?”

“I’m not sure, miss. I saw… I’m not sure I should say. His Grace might—” Betty shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to get someone in trouble when it’s likely nothing.”

“Telling the truth would never get someone in trouble, Betty. Their own choices might, but that is no more your fault than mine. If you know something, I would appreciate the truth.”

“It’s just—”

There was a knock on the door; the girl’s mouth clamped shut, and Phryne cursed internally.

“Hello?” Phryne called out.

“Only me, Phryne!” called Alice as she bustled into the room. She stopped when she saw Jack and Betty. “Oh, it’s a party!”

“Just breakfast,” Phryne said, forcing levity into her voice. “What were you saying, Betty?”

“Nothing, miss,” Betty said quickly, standing. “I’d best get back to the kitchens though. Excuse me.”

“Betty—”

“I really must go,” the girl insisted, then wavered. She moved towards the bedside table, straightening the tray and pouring a cup of tea for Phryne.

“After dinner,” she said quietly. “I won’t be missed then. Meet me in the rose gardens.”

Phryne nodded, reaching out to lay a hand over Betty’s trembling one.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Betty hurriedly backed out of the room, barely sparing a glance for Alice. Phryne caught Jack’s attention, indicating he should keep an eye on the girl; as much as he was playing the officious butler he did know his job—a tiny nod and he slipped away. Phryne turned her attentions to Alice, who was helping herself to a slice of Phryne’s toast from the second tray.

“You can’t possibly need all of this,” Alice observed. “Unless you had a guest last night?”

“Help yourself,” Phryne said, taking a sip of tea. “And no, I didn’t. I was working.”

Alice gave her a knowing smile. “I’m surprised that’s enough to deter you.”

“And what pretty little thing did you bed last night?” Phryne countered.

Smirking, Alice took a seat in a chair and crossed her legs.

“Neither particularly pretty nor particularly repeatable,” she said, then waggled her eyebrows, “but his fingers were definitely magic.”

“Really?” Phryne asked; she would have pegged the Magpie as selfish, though she supposed there was a certain sense in him striving to impress.

Alice nodded.

“I was as surprised as anyone,” she said, “but the novelty appealed.”

Phryne laughed, and the conversation moved on as the two women breakfasted. The missing jewelry was discussed—Alice was clearly not a detective, but she did know the guests, even better than Phryne did.

“I can’t imagine any of them stealing, Phryne, I just can’t.”

“With enough desperation, anyone might be convinced to.”

“Even so, most of them haven’t even been present at the other two thefts.”

Phryne sat up straighter. It was almost painfully obvious, when it was phrased like that. She and Jack had been relying on Shore’s notes, and while she doubted the man had ulterior motives—involving Phryne in the investigation seemed unlikely if he did—there was no way to be certain of the notes. Details were missed.

“What is it, Phryne?” Alice asked. “You’ve thought of something.”

“It’s nothing,” Phryne said absently, already mulling the new insight over. “Just a thought on how to proceed. Could you ask Mr. Butler to come retrieve the trays when you leave? I need to have a bath, but I’ll meet you in the library in an hour.”

“Have you solved the case?” Alice asked.

“Unlikely,” Phryne said, “but I think I know where I’ve been looking at this the wrong way.”

———

Having been summoned by Alice on her way elsewhere, Jack found himself back at Phryne’s rooms, knocking on the door.

“Come in!”

He did, shutting the door just as she emerged from the en suite, freshly bathed and still in a towel. She beamed when she saw him, and despite his attempts to appear professional—partially because of their unerring ability to be interrupted, but also out of general principle—he found himself smiling back.

“You called, Miss Fisher?”

“I did,” she said, giving him a wicked look. “I could use your assistance dressing.”

He looked at her flatly. He’d laid out her clothes himself—and that _was_ an oddity—and there was absolutely no reason she would need his help. Which meant she was goading him, leaving him with the options of resisting her or giving in. The former would be a tactical error, the latter a blow to his pride; there really was no win for him, but he could at least make things difficult for her.

“Very well, miss.”

A glimmer of disappointment crossed her face and he almost felt bad about his choice, but it was quickly replaced with determination. Much better. She dropped the towel; he wondered how much his pride was really worth.

She pulled on her undergarments, then held her blouse up on one finger, waving it slightly. Red flag to a bull. He strode across the room, face neutral, and took it from her.

“I did call you here for a reason,” she said. “We’ve been working from too much information, not too little.”

“How so?” he asked, gesturing for her to turn around so he could help her into the blouse.

“The notes from Shore. I’m sure he’s doing his best, but…”

“You think his information is inaccurate?”

“It’s possible, at least. As things stand, there’s no way this is possible. A misreported detail from a constable might be enough to set us on the wrong path. I think we ought to re-evaluate with the evidence _we_ have gathered. What was going on with Betty?”

Blouse on, Jack skimmed his hand down her arm and she leant into him slightly; perhaps he was winning after all. Which was probably a good thing, because he wasn’t sure he would pass for anyone but himself at that moment.

“I mentioned the ring this morning,” Jack explained, “to gauge reactions from the staff. She seemed interested, and when you rung for your tray, she said you’d requested a second one when you’d crossed paths last night.”

She turned to face him, batting her eyelids teasingly; he countered by beginning to fasten the buttons of her blouse.

“And you knew that was a lie.”

“I had my suspicions,” he smirked. “All the other guests were accounted for, and if the tray was intended for me you would have mentioned it.”

She stepped closer, trapping his hands between their bodies.

“Mmm, my clever Jack,” she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck and toying with his hair. “She wants me to meet her this evening, after dinner.”

“Where?”

“Rose gardens. But she’s liable to flee if she sees you, so hang back?”

“You’re inviting me?” Jack asked, studying her face; he was far more accustomed to her forging ahead and informing him after, and the implicit trust in her request… well, he kissed her softly and hoped she understood.

“Of course,” she murmured, then laughed; in his more sentimental moments, he wondered whether he could spend the rest of his life in the pursuit of that sound. “And if we happen to find some quiet corner afterward, all the better.”

“You’re insatiable.”

She winked, stepping away and finishing her own buttons.

“I meant to discuss the case, Jack,” she scolded, pulling on trousers. “You’re the one who made it gaudy.”

“Speaking of which—”

“The details, yes. By my estimation there are ten people who were both at Alice’s party and this weekend, myself included.”

“So nine potential suspects. Unless you’ve grown bored with uncovering crime?”

She rolled her eyes and headed towards the vanity. Jack leant against the poster of the bed, hands in his pockets as he watched her ready herself for the day.

“Nine, yes,” she said, ticking each one off on her fingers. “Alice, Norf, and Mary; the Magpie and Wren, obviously; and several of the staff from the London agency—Marty, the redheaded girl, the two brothers.”

“The Magpie and Wren are our best suspects with Shore’s information, but they’ve been performing at the time of both thefts,” Jack said.

Phryne nodded. “Alice was with me both times and I can’t see a motive. Norf has the financial troubles, but he invited me here this weekend—I can’t imagine him going for a double bluff. There’s no reason to believe Rose stole from herself.”

“What about the staff then?”

“They are excellent suspects—ever-present but invisible—but I can’t reconcile that with the fact none of them have been present at all the scenes. ”

“Maybe it’s the agency? A conspiracy amongst several people?”

“Oh no,” Phryne said. “Brightwell’s has an impeccable reputation—if there was even a hint of impropriety from the staff, they’d be fired in an instant. I can see one rogue escaping notice, but a group? It’s unlikely. And the agency only supplied staff to three of the five events regardless.”

“So, we have two suspects at all events but an iron-clad alibi for at least one theft. We have four staff, none of which would have been present at all events. Then we have your friends, who are unlikely for several reasons.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not entirely sure this has really clarified anything.”

Phryne swiped colour across her lips and pressed them together, then turned to face him. There was a gleam in her eye he recognised all too well; he’d seen it from her, and in his own reflection, often enough. The thrill of the chase.

“See if you can find out anything more from Betty today, but don’t spook her. She knows something.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “I don’t think she’ll talk to me—whatever it is has her skittish—but she trusts you. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll meet you in the garden tonight.” He gave a small, sarcastic bow as he became Mr. Butler once again. “Enjoy your day, Miss Fisher.”

———

The disadvantage to these private weekends was the repetitive nature of the days, centred around mealtimes; after breakfast Phryne met Alice in the library and spoke with other guests until lunchtime, then went into town to do some shopping with the women of the party. Items were purchased and delivery to the castle was arranged, tea was taken in a tearoom along the river, and they returned in time to prepare for dinner. It was a pattern she had previously welcomed, allowing her a respite from the fast-paced London lifestyle to spend time with friends, but she was undeniably restless; there was a case to investigate and she was left waiting.

By dinnertime, she was determined to push things forward, and found a way to do so over the first course.

“You must come and perform for me in London!” she exclaimed, laying a hand on the Magpie’s arm and smiling brightly. “My father has recently returned from Australia, and he and my mother are hosting a large party next weekend to celebrate their anniversary. My father has a passion for magic—he was the benefactor of Mackenzie’s Cavalcade of Mysteries in Melbourne recently. I’m sure their guests would love to see you and Wren perform; a new audience for you.”

The Magpie fussed and preened and, after a nauseating amount of flattering, agreed to come.

“Marvelous!” Phryne exclaimed. “We can discuss terms tomorrow, if that would suit you.”

The Magpie nodded and the meal continued. There was no sign of Betty or Jack, which was not entirely unexpected, but all four of the hired London staff still considered suspects were in and out throughout the evening with the meal. Phryne watched them as closely as she could, hoping that her unmentioned missing jewelry would embolden the thief to try again, but they were the height of professionalism.

Post-dinner, the party returned to their own suites before meeting again in the parlour for music and games, and Phryne slipped away as soon as the opportunity arose; the difference between the warmth and noise of the parlour and the stillness of the corridor was palpable, and Phryne shivered in the cool air and drew her wrap close as she headed outside.

Exiting into the courtyard, she followed the gravel path down the hill towards the rose gardens; as she turned a corner she spotted a shadow leaning against a wall and smiled. Stepping off the path, she crossed the grass to meet him.

“Anything?” she asked when she drew level.

“Unfortunately not,” he said, shaking his head. “She went into the garden twenty minutes ago. You?”

“I’ve asked the Magpie to perform at the party next week,” Phryne said. “I want you to let it slip to the staff that I will have my rubies brought out specifically for the event, and I’ll do the same with the others.”

“A trap?”

“A lure,” Phryne corrected. “With any luck Betty will have a lead that solves the case and lets us drop this ridiculous pretense, but I won’t wait for something to happen. Now come here.”

He closed the small distance between them, and she reached up to adjust his bowtie.

“Can’t have you looking shabby,” she scolded, letting her hand run down his chest. It was a simple but effective trick, and she could feel his chest rise and fall at her touch; she leant up slightly to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Stay here.”

He nodded, and Phryne moved away to rejoin the path and enter the rose gardens; the border hedges were taller than she was, forming a large square that surrounded the various species of rose bushes laid in a grid. The nearly full moon gave Phryne enough light to navigate, and across the garden she could just spot Betty waiting on a bench. The girl didn’t stir as Phryne drew closer, and a feeling of trepidation began to set in.

“Betty,” Phryne whispered, then saw the open, glassy eyes and odd set of the girl’s neck; she ran the last few steps, fingers flying to her wrist in search of a pulse. Nothing.

Phryne whipped her head around, looking for evidence of another person, but it was just her and the still-warm body.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure most of you are aware (but there's always someone discovering information for the first time), the [Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears IndieGoGo campaign](https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/miss-fisher-the-movie-women-adventure/x/18896403#/) has a week left. If you've been contemplating a pledge but haven't yet made the leap, there's not much time left. ♥♥♥ I can't wait until filming begins in October.

Phryne hadn’t been in the gardens long when she reappeared, looking disturbed. Jack pushed himself off the wall and approached her, and she breathed deeply when she saw him.

“Was there anyone else?”

“Pardon?”

“In the garden. Did you see anyone else enter or leave?”

“No. What’s going on, Phryne?”

Phryne glanced back towards the garden.

“She’s dead.”

“Betty?”

He didn’t know why he asked, except that it gave him a moment to consider the development.

“Yes. I didn’t see anyone, but…”

Jack nodded, pulling a torch from his pocket and heading into the garden. It wasn’t a particularly large one—the bulk of the gardens were to the south—perhaps 20 by 20 feet, laid out in a grid. There were benches along the edges and towards the centre, and a far corner of the hedges bore a small gap. The likeliest escape for their murderer. He swept the light from the torch along the ground and bushes as he moved towards Betty’s body, spotting nothing of interest; the gravel of the paths obscured any footprints, there was no damage to the shrubbery to suggest a struggle. He’d look to the likely escape route in a moment, but he examined the body first.

The young woman had been strangled, likely by something wider and smoother than a rope—a scarf or other length of fabric, perhaps, definitely not by hand. The angle suggested the attack had come from above and behind, and there was enough space between bench and bush for someone to have done so. There were deep gouges on Betty’s neck where she’d clawed at the improvised garrote, and disturbed gravel and scuffs on the heels of her shoes—Phryne noticed at the same moment he did, and he heard her quickly indrawn breath. Betty had fought for her life and failed. He swallowed hard and kept searching; there was a footprint near the hedge, suggesting someone at a run, but the clarity was poor and there was no way to estimate foot size or compare the print. He cursed.

“You couldn’t have known,” Phryne said softly, and not completely convincingly. “Did she tell anyone her plans, or—”

“Nothing,” Jack said, “at least when I was watching. I wasn’t with her every moment, she might have…”

She touched his elbow and he turned to face her. The guilt on her face echoed his own, though he knew neither one was rational; it had been unforeseeable, and all they could do now was find the murderer.

“Leave me the torch,” Phryne said, and he was grateful she didn’t feel the need to pander to his feelings. “Get Norf, have him call the local police, then notify Shore. We can’t be certain it’s connected, but….”

Jack nodded.

“How do I explain—”

“You were going for a walk before bed, found Betty, crossed paths with me when you returned to the castle,” Phryne said. “It’s going to throw you under suspicion, but it’s either that or we’re having a torrid affair and discovered her while sneaking off for an assignation.”

“That does have the advantage of being the truth,” Jack pointed out, more to provoke a reaction than any desire to use it.

She smirked, eyes roaming over him deliberately before meeting his gaze.

“Yes, well, it also raises questions we don’t want.”

“Astute as always, Miss Fisher,” Jack conceded with a nod. “I don’t suppose you brought your pistol?”

“No, why?”

“Because,” Jack said, reaching into his pocket and attempting to look stern, “if I’m leaving you out here alone in the dark with a murderer roaming around, I’d feel better knowing you’re sufficiently armed.”

“Oh darling, I’m always sufficiently armed,” she purred, but took the gun he offered.

Jack cast a final look over the scene, then headed back up the hill towards the castle. He continued wracking his brain, hoping for some detail he’d missed at the time, but there was nothing. He wondered, not entirely without guilt, whether he’d been too distracted by thoughts of Phryne to do his due diligence, whether he’d overlooked some warning; he came up with nothing, but the question lingered.

He didn’t cross paths with other staff or guests until he arrived at the parlour, the door slightly ajar. He slipped inside; Norf was in the middle of the room, engrossed in conversation with several of the guests. Jack had to admit that whatever his reservations about Phryne’s old lover, he _liked_ the man—he was confident and friendly and forthright, and completely unstudied in his mannerisms. Shame he continued to linger on the suspect list. Norf must have sensed Jack’s entrance, because he looked up and smiled, making his excuses to the guests and coming over.

“Phryne’s just left,” he said as he approached. “I don’t think she was feeling well. What can I do you for?”

Jack glanced around the room—nobody was watching the exchange, but he gestured for Norf to follow him towards the edge of the room.

“I need you to ring the police,” Jack said. “Quietly as possible, but it’s pressing.”

“Not another theft?” Norf asked, worried; Phryne clearly hadn’t felt the need to inform him of her missing ring.

“No, unfortunately not,” Jack said. “One of your girls has been murdered in the gardens—Miss Fisher is waiting with the body.”

“She’s—pardon?”

“The maid, Betty,” Jack said. “Sometime in the last half hour or so, I would guess.”

“Do you regularly guess?” Norf asked abrasively.

“Spend enough time with Miss Fisher and it becomes a common occurrence,” Jack replied. “Please ring the police.”

“Yes, of course,” Norf said, giving himself a small shake. “Pardon, this was… unexpected. How did you find her?”

“Evening constitutional. The fresh air and exercise helps me sleep, but…”

“It must have been a shock,” said Norf. “And you said Phryne is with her?”

Jack nodded. “She was headed to bed when I was coming in, and went down.”

Norf’s brow furrowed, and his tone was clipped.

“You sent her out into the dark with a murderer on the loose?”

It seemed there were some ways the Duke of Norfolk did not know Phryne Fisher, and this was amongst them.

“If you’ve ever figured out how to stop her from doing what she thinks is right, please tell me the trick,” Jack said drolly. “I’ve yet to achieve it.”

Norf accepted the point with surprising grace, and headed towards the parlour door; Jack followed him.

“I’ll take the motorcar,” Norf said as they entered the corridor. “It will be faster than the telephone—the policeman in town has a bicycle, but he’s only a constable. Deals with the occasional rowdy night at the pub, but that’s about it. The nearest station is in Littlehampton—I can be there and back in half an hour with an actual investigator. I want you to join Phryne. Stubborn or not, I don’t like the idea of leaving her alone.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll telephone the station at Littlehampton, let them know you are coming, then rejoin Miss Fisher. We’ll be in the rose gardens.”

They had reached the castle doors. Norf paused long enough to grab a hat and coat, pulling them on decisively and then looking at Jack.

“Do be careful, Mr. Butler,” he said. “One death is unfortunate, two is carelessness.”

With a wink, Norf stepped out into the night.

———

The crunch of gravel warned Phryne someone was coming, and she slid a hand to Jack’s pistol and waited for them to pull into sight. It had been hard to judge how much time had passed; long enough it seemed unlikely to be the murderer, likely not long enough for the police to arrive. Someone from the house, perhaps, sent down to keep her company. Still, caution was advisable.

When Jack appeared, her grip on the gun relaxed.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, drawing close.

She tilted her head up. “Imagine meeting you here.”

His attempts to look disapproving were really just endearing, and she was well aware it was not sincere; his not only tolerated her flirtations but seemed to relish them, and his dry rejoinders rather added to the fun. . 

“Norf’s gone to fetch the police,” he said, pretending he hadn’t noticed her tone. “I’ve telephoned them and also left a message for Shore, but he wasn’t at the station. Before he left, Norf insisted I rejoin you—I thought of trying to interview people before the authorities descended, but…”

Phryne nodded in understanding.

“I can’t say I’m displeased with the decision,” she said, glancing around the dark. “I feel rather like a sitting duck here, but I didn’t want to move the body.”

“The great Phryne Fisher feeling uncertain?” Jack teased, and it was her turn to look unamused. He gave a small grin. “Has anything happened since I left?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’ve been going over the gardens, but it looks like our killer left nothing behind.”

She glanced towards Betty’s body, feeling a wave of guilt rise once more. The girl had been out here waiting for Phryne, and she couldn’t help but feel this death could be laid at her feet. Still, there was nothing to do but ensure the actual guilty party faced justice.

“Do any of our suspects have an alibi at least?”

Phryne shook her head. “After dinner, everyone parted ways briefly before we went to the parlour. It could be any one of them.”

Jack growled in frustration, and even with the situation as it was, Phryne had to admit the sound made her knees just a little bit weak. Really, she had imagined getting him into bed would make her less prone to random acts of desire, not more; it was terribly inconvenient, though hopefully only temporary. Surely it was that result of passion unleashed, only to be harnessed once more, that left her acting more like a schoolgirl than an experienced woman of the world.

Trying not to let her thoughts slip, she gestured towards one of the other benches and suggested they sit until the police arrived. Jack declined, choosing to pace the perimeter of the gardens as if he’d find something.

“You’ll disturb the crime scene,” Phryne said half-heartedly.

“I’m going back to the castle,” Jack said. “And if that constable at Scotland Yard insists Shore’s not available, I’ll go over his head. This is absurd. We should have a history by now, background on our suspects, _something_.”

She could appreciate his frustrations, as rare as it was for him to expose them.

“A late night break-in?” Phryne suggested.

“Through nine rooms?” Jack said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure that’s easily arranged.”

“There are two of us,” she pointed out. “I know it’s not how you like to conduct an investigation, but I’m not seeing another option at the moment.”

“That does seem to be a common occurrence of late.”

“Don’t be petulant, it doesn’t suit.”

“I’m not being—”

She arched one eyebrow and he sighed.

“I am, perhaps, being slightly petulant.”

“Slightly,” she said, tilting her head and giving him a small smile.”Go back to the castle, give Shore hell. I can’t imagine Norf will be much longer.”

Jack glanced at his watch and nodded. “You’ll be alright?”

“Always, Jack.”

He nodded again, seemingly more to convince himself than anything, and left the garden once more. Phryne resumed silently waiting, looking for some angle to investigate. Nothing had come from her investigations so far, but undoubtedly there was one piece of evidence waiting to be found that would slide everything into place, she just had to find it. Which meant searching for it. By the time Norf arrived, trailed by a sergeant from Littlehampton, she had a plan in mind and an idea of how to execute it.

“It’s awful,” she cried as the policeman drew near. “The poor girl, dead!”

Then she sobbed as dramatically as she could and flung herself into Norf’s arms; he patted her back and murmured soothing words, clearly taken aback, then led her out of the gardens gently. Once they were outside the hedges and down the path, she dropped the act and stood up straight.

“Norf, I need a favour.”

The poor man looked deeply confused, but agreed to do whatever she needed.

“The police will be interviewing everyone once they’ve finished with… the body. I’ll insist they speak with me first, and then I need you to keep the other guests distracted.”

“Why?”

“If I tell you, you’ll be complicit,” Phryne said. “I need you to trust me.”

“Phryne—”

“A woman is dead, Norf. I’ll do what I need to do regardless of your help, but this would make it significantly less dangerous.”

He shook his head. “My mother always said you were trouble.”

“I doubt this is what she meant,” Phryne countered, than patted his cheek fondly. “Thank you, darling.”

“I must be mad,” he said, ruefully shaking his head.

“A little,” she teased, then motioned towards the castle. “Shall we head up and wait for the police?”

“I’m surprised you’re not pestering them. Waiting’s not your style, Phrynekins.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve gotten everything I can from the crime scene. My focus is best deployed elsewhere for the moment.”

———

As Phryne left her interview with the police sergeant—the man was clearly out of his depths in a murder investigation, but she’d explained the situation and referred him to Inspector Shore and there was nothing to do but hope for the best—she looked down the corridor in search of Jack. As the one who’d found the body, he’d been interviewed first and Phryne had motioned for him to linger as their paths had crossed; he was lurking in one of the doorways further down the corridor, and she made her way to him.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“I’m not sure that man would know how to interview a suspect if he were given a script,” Jack muttered. “And believe me, I tried.”

“Has the possibility ever occurred to you that your standards are unfairly high?”

“No,” he said flatly, and her lips quirked in amusement.

“Well, either way, I was able to use his inexperience to our advantage. He’ll be interviewing the staff first, and Norf has the guests in the parlour. Now is the perfect time to…” she raised an eyebrow in suggestion, and he shook his head.

“Is the grand old duke aware you’re breaking into his guests’ rooms?”

“Well, to be fair, _we_ are breaking in,” she said blithely. “And no, though I suspect he has a good idea.”

“This is madness.”

“Probably. We don’t have long,” Phryne said. “If you take the staff quarters—including Betty’s room, before the police go tramping through—I’ll handle the guests.”

“Is that an order, Miss Fisher?”

“If it would help,” she said.

“You could say please.”

“I could. I won’t, but I could.”

His reticence fell away, and he laughed under his breath.

“You’d better hope my lockpicking skills are up to par.”

Phryne pulled a set of keys from her small handbag.

“I filched these from the cook yesterday.”

“Of course you did,” he said, reaching out to take them; Phryne jerked them back at the last moment, grinning.

“You could say please.”

“I could,” he smirked, “but I won’t.”

She handed them over, then glanced up and down the hall; she saw one of the London staff coming down the corridor, likely for her interview.

“Claire Connors,” Jack said quietly. “One of our remaining suspects.”

Phryne nodded.

“You’d better be quick, Jack,” she said. “I’ll meet you in my rooms in an hour, sooner if you can.”

Then she slipped away as quickly and quietly as she could, her attention already shifted to the search for clues.


	10. Chapter 10

Phryne had five suspects in the guest wing, which meant five rooms to investigate: the Magpie would be first, then the sister Wren. Rose van Houten’s suite would come after that, then Alice and Norf’s—the latter two would be easy to investigate under other pretenses if necessary, so she would leave those to last. Grateful she’d secured her lockpick to her garter out of habit, Phryne quickly hiked up her skirts and set to work on the Magpie’s lock.

The room was messy, clothes laid haphazardly and props from the tricks strewn around the room. She wrinkled her nose subtly; perhaps the shabby cloak was less of a game than she’d suspected. The chaos made searching both easier and more difficult—she was less concerned a mislaid item would tip him off of the search, but there was more to wade through with little rhyme or reason to anything.

It took almost twenty-five minutes to get through the room despite the hurriedness of her search, and nothing of great interest was turned up. Some notations in a diary she couldn’t quite parse, but seemed to do with which tricks were performed to an audience. Hardly a motive for murder. Well, onwards and upwards. Relocking the door behind her, she moved to Wren’s rooms next.

Phryne couldn’t quite put her finger on the girl—she seemed overwhelmed, going along with her brother because she saw no other way, and shy enough to blush whenever that servant boy Marty was in the room. But she seemed to have a real knack for illusions as well, becoming vibrant on stage. It made Phryne curious, and there was very little that could deter her from satisfying her curiosity; perhaps there were answers amongst her personal effects.

A lamp near the bedside had been left on, the light through the glass shade giving a greenish cast to the room. Phryne started in the en suite, but found nothing more than the soaps and lotions and cosmetics any female guest would have. The desk was searched next, correspondence rifled through—there was very little of it, most requests to perform and nothing terribly illuminating—one letter came from York, and Phryne memorised the name and address to pass to Shore before moving onto the wardrobe.

The wardrobe was fastidiously organised—costumes on the far left, then evening gowns and day dresses as she moved to the right. The clothes were of good quality, but in varying states of wear—clearly the girl knew the value to be found in quality, but was not replacing her wardrobe every season either. To the right side of the wardrobe there were a series of scarves and stoles, and Phryne noticed an empty spot amongst them. She didn’t recall Wren wearing one to dinner, but couldn’t be certain; she filed the thought away and continued her search.

Vanity, chest of drawers, empty trunks all turned up nothing. The bedcovers were slightly askew; not so much that it couldn’t be explained by movements as Wren had dressed for dinner, but Phryne strode across the room to check all the same. She pulled the heavy doona back and lifted the pillows, catching sight of something caught between the mattress and headboard; she pulled it out delicately with two fingers.

Well, she’d found the missing scarf.

It was a long, thin scarf of periwinkle blue; Phryne examined it closely, her heart sinking. The fine material had several small runs, and there were a few minuscule flecks of what appeared to be blood.

Damn. And she’d really liked the girl.

Rolling the scarf up as tight as possible, she slipped it into her small handbag and cast a final eye over the room. She’d have to put the police in this direction, but this was all she could do at the moment. Closing the door behind her, she paused in the corridor.

She should still search the other rooms; thoroughness was vital, and it was best not to presume too quickly. She made her way to Rose’s room, oddly unlocked, and stepped inside. The Magpie had been messy and Wren strictly organised, but Rose had barely any personal effects at all—just enough clothing to cover the weekend (and Phryne recognised the same dress she’d worn to Alice’s party several days before), minimal jewelry. Perhaps Norf wasn’t the only one facing financial difficulties. A noise in the corridor told Phryne her time was up; she headed towards the bedroom door and cracked it open, looking for the source of the noise. It was only Jack, and she stepped into the corridor.

“The guests are coming,” Jack said in greeting. “I saw them leaving the parlour.”

Phryne nodded, and gestured towards her own rooms.

“Perhaps we should—”

He nodded and they quickly made their way down the corridor. Once they were inside the rooms, Phryne poured them each a whiskey and Jack took a place standing her the fireplace mantel; the familiarity made Phryne smile, and she draped herself into an armchair and raised the glass in a toast.

“I think I’ve found the murder weapon,” she said.

“More than I found,” Jack said with a grimace. “I made my way through Betty’s room to no avail, then Claire Connors—the red-haired maid from London?” Phryne nodded. “Nothing there either, but as I was coming out of her room, Marty arrived. He looked rather suspicious of my motives, but I managed to escape with the insinuation that I’d…” he cleared his throat, “left something behind during an earlier visit.”

He was rather endearingly cute when he blushed, and Phryne tried to hide her smirk.

“You do get around, Mr. Butler.”

He frowned, but didn’t rise to the bait. “You said you had more success?”

“In Wren’s room,” Phryne said, opening her handbag to retrieve the scarf.

“Wren? That’s a surprise.”

“I certainly didn’t suspect her,” Phryne said. “Her brother, yes, but not her. It’s quite hard to argue with the evidence though.”

Phryne dangled the evidence temptingly, and Jack pushed off the mantelpiece to move nearer and examine it.

“Blood, do you think?”

“Too small to say, but I can’t imagine another reason it would have been hidden behind the bed,” Phryne sighed.

“No sign of your ring though?”

“No. And she was in town with the rest of us today, so she hardly had a chance to hock it.”

“She could have hidden it elsewhere?”

“I presume so.”

“You don’t sound convinced?”

Phryne shrugged lightly. “Perhaps I’m simply disappointed by the easiness of the case.”

“Or that you didn’t solve it before?” he asked, voice low; she should have known there was no point in trying to hide it.

“Perhaps.”

He handed the scarf back and Phryne tucked it away, setting her empty tumbler aside and rising elegantly to stand before him.

“I should probably turn the evidence in to the police,” she said, somehow reluctant; she looked up to meet his eyes, expecting him to agree—his certainty in the face of nobility and his own moral compass was one of the reasons she’d been happy to work with him in the beginning, all those months ago. To her surprise he tilted his head in thought.

“If you’re not certain…” he said, fingers reaching out to brush hers, “perhaps it could wait?”

“Jack Robinson! I’m not sure if that’s a statement of faith in my abilities, or if you simply aren’t convinced of her guilt either.”

His smile was rueful. “Can’t it be both?”

“I am a terrible influence on you as a police officer,” she laughed.

His fingers closed around hers, and tugged her imperceptibly closer.

“But a wonderful influence on me as a man,” he murmured, kissing her softly.

And really, who was she to argue?

———

Phryne looked far too pleased with herself, in Jack’s opinion. Admittedly he couldn’t actually _feel_ his legs properly at the moment, but that was not the point—she was smugly looking up him from his chest, where she’d decided to rest her chin in post-coital bliss, her fingers tracing up and down his torso, her hair in disarray. He had absolutely no desire to stir from the bed for the foreseeable future, which was unfortunate as he was required to.

“I can’t stay the night.”

“Of course you can,” she protested, contented smirk still firmly in place. “Alice already suspects, and everyone else will learn the truth soon enough.”

“Alice suspects?”

She rolled her eyes, giving what _almost_ amounted to an embarrassed smile.

“Not that you’re… you, but that there’s… us.”

The corner of his lip twitched. “There’s us?”

“Apparently I wasn’t subtle.”

“You? Not subtle?” he asked in mock-surprise. “Whatever is the world coming to?”

She pinched his side and he chuckled.

“I’m serious, Jack!”

Catching her hand, he lifted it to his lips to press a kiss against the palm, the action shifting the current between them into something weightier.

“So am I, Miss Fisher.”

She shifted her hand to stroke his cheek, looking remarkably smitten—it might have been his own emotions clouding his judgment, but he didn’t think so. And even if it was, he was still in her bed, her leg around his and her chin on his chest and her eyes so entirely soft as she watched him.

“If you won’t stay the night, at least join me in the bath?”

There was an irrepressible joy in her eyes at the request, not devious or mysterious or coy but simply vibrant; he would not, under any circumstances, ever admit that he was incapable of saying no to her in moments like this. He tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded his assent. She immediately rolled off him.

“Marvelous!” she chirped. “If you start the bath then—”

“What, _now_?”

He raised a hand as if protesting; his limbs were still nearly jelly-like in post-orgasmic exhaustion, and he didn’t have to leave quite yet.

“Yes, now,”she said decisively. “By the time the water has run and we’ve enjoyed it and you’re redressed, it will be at least midnight before you’re sneaking back to your rooms. If you’re going to insist on keeping up this charade, we can’t have you gallumphing around in the middle of the night. Especially as you are a likely suspect in a murder at this moment in time.”

“I do not ‘gallumph’,” he protested, aware it was futile.

“Of course you do, darling,” she said, slipping from the bed.

“Nearly twenty years of professional experience would disagree, Miss Fisher.”

Rather than respond, she turned, giving an exaggerated wriggle of her—frankly magnificent—behind as she began to gather the clothing they’d strewn around the room. Resigning himself to his fate, Jack got up and headed into the en suite to run a bath. Phryne ducked in and out as it filled the room with the scent of lavender, bringing his suit and her own pyjamas before heading out once more.

The enormous tub was almost filled when there was a knock on the bedroom door.

“One moment!” Phryne called.

Jack hurriedly turned off the taps and began to dress, glancing in the mirror to try and smooth his hair into some semblance of order. There was a streak of lipstick against his collar, and he attempted to hide it beneath the suit jacket.

“Norf, hello!” Phryne said from the other room, her voice clearly pitched loud enough for Jack to hear. “I was just heading for a bath, did you need something?”

Jack froze. The idea of being discovered by their host seemed worse than the other possibilities, and Phryne’s history with the man didn’t help. He wasn’t jealous—he’d like to think he was above such pettiness, though the truth was that he simply saw no point when Phryne had made her allegiance clear—but it was still awkward in a way another guest or member of staff wouldn’t have been.

“I wanted to see how you’re holding up, Phryne,” Norf said. “What a terrible thing.”

“I’m fine, Norf,” Phryne said. “Upset, of course, but I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t need—”

Jack had a pretty good idea what the man was offering from the seductive smoothness of his tone, but Phryne cut through it immediately.

“This isn’t the time, Norf,” Phryne said, firm and kind. “I’m exhausted, to begin with. And… honestly, I’m not announcing this to all and sundry right now, but we’ve been friends long enough. There’s a man. In Australia.”

“Not the sharing kind, I take it?”

Phryne laughed. “Honestly, when it comes to him I’m not inclined to share either. It’s… it’s different, with him. He makes me…” she laughed again, softly this time. “I’m not even certain, some days. Happier. Bolder. Steadier. More aggravated, on occasion. And I don’t know how it will play out, but… I don’t think there’s any point in you offering again while I’m here.”

Jack glanced at his hands, tightly gripping the edge of the sink basin. This was not how or when or how he’d expected the conversation to happen, and it was taking all his effort not to exit the bathroom and kiss her senseless, Norf be damned. She loved him. Maybe not in so many words, but…

“I’m happy for you,” Norf said, and to the man’s credit, he sounded completely sincere. “Did you get a chance to snoop?”

“I wasn’t snooping, darling,” Phryne laughed, “but yes. Thank you for keeping the guests occupied.”

“And…?”

“I have a suspect.”

“Should I ask who?”

“Probably not,” Phryne admitted, but continued. “I don’t suppose you know where Wren went after dinner.”

Norf coughed, in a way that sounded suspiciously embarrassed.

“I do, actually. You don’t think she’s responsible?”

“Something came to light that suggests it, yes.”

“We were… occupied. In the study.”

“Discussing philosophy, I’m sure.”

“Well, her mouth was rather full and I was more interested in praising God, but the general idea is the same.”

“No wonder the cook despairs of you,” Phryne said, not entirely scoldingly. “You’re turning her home into a castle of utter debauchery.”

“It’s part of my charm,” chuckled Norf.

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, mostly Phryne subtly confirming the alibi and teasing the man for his escapades, and eventually Norf said his goodbyes. Jack could hear the door open and close behind hmi, and a moment later Phryne entered the en suite. She’d pulled on a robe before answering the door, and her arms were wrapped around her waist. Her expression was uncharacteristically still.

“Did you hear all of that?” she asked.

Jack nodded, reaching out to catch her elbow and pull her towards him. He fingered the sash of the robe thoughtfully, but left it secured.

“I did mean it,” she said; it was a whisper, but completely certain.

A sudden lump in his throat made it difficult to reply, and he nuzzled her neck instead, kissing down to the edge of the robe. She slipped it from her shoulders to the floor, and his mouth trailed further south, until he was on his knees with his nose against the crook of her thigh and her fingers laced tightly in his hair.

“What about the bath?” she teased, just a little breathlessly.

“Sod the bath,” he growled in response. “We can have one in the morning.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been TERRIBLE about replying to comments in a timely manner, and with con travel only a couple of days away I don't see that improving for at least another week. But I seriously love and appreciate every single one of you for taking the time to comment.

When Phryne woke up, Jack had already left; she had a vague memory of him slipping from the bed before first light, murmuring an apology when she’d stirred, and she wondered if that would be their usual routine when they returned to Melbourne. Not every night, of course, but sometimes. His job would make an open affair difficult to maintain, and sneaking from her bed in the early hours of the morning would give them a plausible defense. 

Though, really, that was a contemplation for another time; she rolled and stretched and glanced at her bedside clock. Nearly nine—she should head down for breakfast, see how the other guests were reacting to the tragic news of Betty’s demise. Norf’s alibi threw their one real lead into doubt, but someone must know something and she was running out of time. It was supposed to be the last day at the castle, and the guests were scheduled to depart after lunch, though that presumed the police would give them permission to leave. 

She bathed and dressed quickly, and she was in the breakfast room by half-past nine. All the other guests were there, talking amongst themselves; many of them were gossiping beneath their breath to their nearest neighbour, scandalised but somehow invigorated by the development. Wren sat apart, eyes glazed; when the servant Marty came up beside her to top up coffee, she flinched and shied away. Hardly the act of a criminal mastermind, but perhaps someone who had panicked and committed an irrevocable act. Phryne quickly assembled a plate from the buffet and made her way towards the girl. 

“Such terrible news,” she said quietly, slipping into the seat beside Wren. 

Wren’s jaw clenched. 

“It’s awful,” she agreed, her voice hoarse. “There was no reason…” 

Up close, Phryne could see the bags beneath Wren’s eyes, feel the exhaustion coming off her in waves. She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and Wren sagged beneath her touch. 

“I only wish I knew something,” Phryne said, hoping her instincts were not leading her astray. “Some little detail that would help the police find her killer.” 

Wren looked down at her plate, pushing absently at her eggs with her fork. 

“I wish I could,” Wren agreed. “Did. I wish I did.” 

If Wren didn’t have some idea what had occurred, Phryne would eat her hat. Whatever had forced her silence was obviously powerful, and pushing her would do no good, but friendship could and should be offered. 

“I’m sure the police will find out the truth,” Phryne offered. “And I do have some experience with these things. If… if you find you remember something, even if it seems unimportant, you can tell me if you don’t want to tell them.” 

“Thank you for your offer,” Wren said, “but I don’t know anything I didn’t tell them when they spoke to me last night.” 

“Of course,” Phryne said, beginning to eat. 

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully; the police came from Littlehampton to speak with the guests again, and took contact information but allowed them all to return to their homes. Phryne made arrangements for the Magpie and Wren to perform at her parents’ party later in the week, and spread it around the guests that she was having her rubies brought out for the occasion. It was still the best chance they had of luring the thief out, and the need to catch them had become more pressing after the previous night’s events. 

When it was time to leave, Phryne hugged Norf and kissed his cheek. She knew he’d been in town earlier that morning, to speak with Betty’s father about her death; she hadn’t asked how it had gone, but she could read the sadness in his eyes. The man could be an irrepressible cad at times, but he had a good heart. 

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “If you need anything…” 

Norf cleared his throat. 

“Alice is staying,” he replied. “The police think it might be unrelated to the…” he dropped his voice very low, “the thefts. Apparently she had a suitor in town who wasn’t pleased that she’d taken a position at the castle.” 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know,” Norf said honestly. “But we’ll cooperate with the police, and ensure she’s buried with dignity and her family cared for.” 

Phryne smiled at him fondly. 

“You are a good man, Norf. And you’re doing the right thing.”

He smiled back. 

“If I don’t get back to London before, I’ll see you on Friday for the party,” he said. “I presume I’m still invited?” 

“Always,” Phryne said; she saw Jack appear over Norf’s shoulder, indicating it was time to leave—they only had a few hours to get back to London, where Phryne had plans for dinner with her parents and Jack had arranged to meet with Shore to discuss the developments in the case. “Do be careful, please. And telephone if you need anything.” 

———

“I feel I should apologise,” Phryne said, somewhere outside of Croydon. 

Jack took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a questioning look; she was resolutely staring out the window, lips pressed together, and he couldn’t quite parse her tone—not quite truly apologetic, but not light and teasing either. 

“Any particular reason?” 

“This can’t be what you expected for a holiday.” 

“To be fair, Miss Fisher, this is exactly what I expected.” 

She made a noise that was somewhere between snort and cackle; he had to admit that as much as he loved all her facets, her total lack of guile charmed him in a way very little else did. 

“You’ll have to continue the cover until the party,” she said. “Unless we manage to resolve the case before.” 

Jack nodded. 

“Does that bother you?” he asked, lips twitching. “I would have thought you’d jump at the chance to order me around for longer.” 

“I much prefer your cooperation to your obedience,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I definitely prefer the freedom to put my hands all over you when the impulse strikes. It’s really very inconvenient.” 

“I don’t recall that stopping you, Miss Fisher.” 

She waved the comment aside with her hand. 

“I had planned to have you escort me everywhere once you arrived,” she said. “The theatre, restaurants, darling little hole-in-the-wall dance clubs. Once we left the hotel, I mean. The gossip it would generate—the Honorable Miss Fisher and her mysterious companion from the Antipodes—would be worth you coming alone. But we really can’t risk that yet, if we want to keep your identity a secret.” 

“I’m glad to know I’m a passing entertainment,” he said dryly, not meaning it. 

She didn’t respond immediately, clearly evaluating his sincerity, then leant back in the seat. 

“You know me, Jack—completely subject to whims and fancies, and not a constant bone in my body.” 

“Fickle as the day is long,” Jack agreed, his smile breaking through despite his best efforts. “What were you saying to Norf earlier?” 

“Nothing interesting,” Phryne said. “I told him to keep me abreast of developments in Arundel, and to be careful.” 

“You think he’s in danger?” 

“The police believe the motive may have been jealousy, not greed. A lover none-too-happy with Betty’s new position. And given Norf’s history…” 

Jack hummed in inquiry. 

“Norf’s young, attractive, and wealthy. He’s bedded more than a few servants over the years, I suspect—ones that approach him, I mean. Norf’s not so clueless as to pursue those in his employ, at least.” 

“You don’t sound impressed,” Jack said. 

Phryne shrugged. “It’s common enough. It doesn’t mean I condone the act—when it comes to sex, I’m strictly interested in the reciprocal.” 

“So you have never attempted to, perhaps, bed me in pursuit of my case files?” Jack teased, but with genuine curiosity—he’d long appreciated Phryne’s freedom to dally when and how she saw fit, and could even admire it somewhat even if that wasn’t how he was inclined, but he’d never really _understood_ it. 

“I don’t enjoy treating it as a transaction, so no. The two desires were entirely separate, and you were far more obliging on the case front. And money muddies the water further,” she said. He was unsurprised that she approached this with the same thoughtfulness she did everything. “Coincidentally, Jack, that’s why you’re not being paid for your stint as a butler.” 

He let out a whooping laugh in surprise, and she chuckled. 

“I suppose I could live with that,” he said. “Did I mention I managed to halve our suspects amongst the hired staff?” 

Phryne sat up straighter, the force of her attention turned to him. 

“You didn’t,” she drawled. “Whatever did you do, you clever man?” 

“Not clever at all,” he said. “The two brothers hired by the agency were at the pub in town from early afternoon. Norf’s cook was about to serve them for luncheon when she found out, but the alibi was easy enough to confirm. They were never strong suspects to begin with though. And if Betty was murdered for other reasons….” 

“It would be an immense coincidence if she was,” Phryne said. “Unless something else comes to light, I am quite comfortable presuming the thefts and her death are related, regardless of the local constabulary’s thoughts.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “That still leaves us with, what, seven suspects? Marty and Claire from the staffing agency. The Magpie and Wren. Norf, Alice, and Rose van Houten.” 

“All unlikely for one reason or another,” Phryne said, but her previous frustration with the fact had been replaced with her more usual enthusiastic determination. “But we’re finally getting somewhere.” 

The rest of the journey was spent discussing the evidence they had; the lack of answers was frustrating, but they had a clear direction at least, and there really was nobody Jack enjoyed investigating with more. 

———

Back at the hotel, Phryne flung herself dramatically onto the bed and pulled her hat over her eyes. 

“I’m not going,” she declared. 

Jack clucked in sympathy, but merely began to unpack the bags. 

“I have a murder to solve, Jack. My parents can plan their own party.” 

She was being petulant. She _knew_ she was being petulant. She knew that this ridiculous urge to wail and gnash her teeth would pass and she would attend the dinner, both because she’d committed and because the party was currently their best lead in actually solving the case, but there was something perversely satisfying in the protest. 

“I’m certain your father is capable of organising the event,” Jack said mildly. “It might even come in under budget.” 

Phryne tore the hat from her face and glared at him. 

“Not. Funny,” she groused, sitting up. “I’m going to run a bath.” 

“Would you like company?” he asked. “Since we were so rudely interrupted last night.” 

She pointed a finger at him reprovingly. 

“Absolutely not, Jack. If you’re going to make comments like that about my father, you can unpack the bags like a good servant and never see my naked body again.” 

“Yes, miss,” he said, expression neutral. Really, it was unnerving how good he was at that. 

She crossed the room, ostensibly to retrieve her robe but mostly to press her body against his and nip at his ear just to hear him groan. 

“Just making sure you know what you’re missing,” she purred playfully, tugging slightly at his ear as she pulled away. 

She could feel his eyes on her as she sashayed into the en suite, but he didn’t make a move to join her. Pity, really, but she _had_ declined the offer. And loath as she was to admit it, bathing alone was probably for the best—dinner with her parents was trying at the best of times, and there was no room for error under the circumstances. She ran the bath and slipped in, allowing the warm water to lap over her as she strategised. The nature of the party meant her mother was more likely than usual to meddle in Phryne’s love life, but it would be easier to turn the focus back onto the elder Fishers. Her father was a wild card, but still attempting to get back into his wife’s good graces—so long as Phryne could keep Margaret (and her own temper) in check, Henry would fall in line. It almost made her wish that Jack could join the meal—she didn’t need him to manage her parents, she had plenty of experience _there_ , but his steadiness and impartiality would make the experience more enjoyable. And she’d pay good money to witness her mother’s unstoppable force meet Jack’s immovable will. Perhaps once the case was resolved. There were ways to turn things to her advantage.

Sluicing the water over her skin a final time, Phryne rose from the bath and wrapped herself in a towel before padding back into the bedroom. Jack had finished unpacking and was seated on the chaise, reading a book and looking delightfully at ease.He gave the book the same focused attention as he did everything else, and an impish urge to distract him struck her; dropping the towel, she crossed the room and took it from his hands with a soft tug. He looked up at her, his expression a combination of curiosity and fondness, and she straddled his lap as she set the book aside. 

“All clean?” he asked. 

“All clean and positively filthy,” she replied, nuzzling his neck; his hand ran up the length of her spine and she shivered, the tenderness a luxury. 

“Am I forgiven?” 

“Provisionally. I’ll expect a proper apology after dinner.” 

“A nightcap?” he asked, his voice and the trace of his fingers promising something very different indeed. 

“I was thinking bringing me up to date on Shore’s investigations,” she laughed, wriggling slightly before moving from his lap—she really did have to get ready. “But I suppose a drink wouldn’t go amiss either.” 

He chuckled, and returned to his book. Phryne dressed and applied her make-up, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to study him—once or twice she caught him watching her, and it made her flush uncharacteristically and bite her lip to suppress a smile. She had ten minutes until her car was due to arrive when she opened her jewelry box, and paused. 

“Where did you put my pin?” she asked. 

“The brooches?” Jack asked, looking up. “I put them both in the jewelry box, was that wrong?” 

“What do you mean both?” Phryne asked, rifling through the box’s contents. He’d clearly returned most of the items to the larger box, but not the one she was searching for. 

“There were two, weren’t there? One with pearls, one with rubies.” 

“And my swallow pin,” Phryne said, “but it’s not here.” 

“The one I—” 

“Yes,” Phryne said, not caring how much this detail revealed. 

“I didn’t see it,” Jack said. 

“It was in my travelling case with the rest of the jewelry,” Phryne said adamantly, spotting the case nearby and opening it—perhaps the pin had fallen into a crevice. Nothing. 

To say she was panicking would be an exaggeration, but she made her way to the larger luggage cases to search through them. Jack came over to join her, and they quickly searched the bags, the newly unpacked luggage, and the surrounding floor with no success. 

“Where is it?” she muttered, still on her knees, embarrassed to realise that tears were pricking her eyes. It was just a pin. A meaningful pin, yes, but a pin. Hardly worth crying over, even if the gift—and accompanying understanding—had been one of the most thoughtful she’d ever received. Just a pin. 

Jack’s hand came out to rest on hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Perhaps it fell out when it was packed in Arundel?” he suggested. “Telephone Norf, it’s probably already turned up.” 

It was a fair suggestion, and Phryne stood. These things did happen, and it could have easily been overlooked. But as she spoke to the operator to place the call, she couldn’t help the feeling of dread in her gut that told her it might actually be gone. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the massive delays in updates. All I have left to write is the denouement of the case, so hopefully the last few chapters are more consistent. Posting before completion is always a bad idea.

Jack gave a final rifle through the luggage, checking the linings for tears where a small object might have slipped, but there was nothing. Odd, but no doubt the pin would turn up—it was hardly the sort of thing the jewel thief would have targeted, made of nothing more than enamel and paste. The loss seemed to have thrown Phryne—he could hear her on the telephone in the other room, voice low and quick—but perhaps that was more the prospect of facing her parents for dinner; very little seemed to unsettle her the way her father did. He stood and returned the luggage to the rack, casting an eye around the room in case he had overlooked some location. Nothing. 

A moment later, Phryne swept back into the bedroom, leaning against the door jamb and looking more distraught than he would have credited. 

“It isn’t there,” she announced. “Alice herself went to look.” 

“Did you wear it?” Jack asked. “Perhaps it fell off in another room?” 

“No. I didn’t—” she gave a scoffing laugh and a shake of her head. “I didn’t want to risk it with a pickpocket around.” 

It was, as far as declarations went, rather endearing—she was quite happy to dangle expensive rubies as a lure even after having a ring stolen right off her finger, but the pin was too valuable to risk. Despite the fact Jack knew she could replace it a hundred times without thought. 

“It may still turn up,” Jack said. 

She didn’t appear convinced, frowning. Then she sighed. 

“I’m sorry, I should have been more careful.”

Her tone was genuinely apologetic, which was disconcerting; Jack shrugged, attempting levity. 

“There’s no reason to apologise, Miss Fisher. You never have before, and I don’t see why you should start with something that wasn’t even your fault.” 

She laughed at that, and Jack couldn’t help himself—he took three long strides towards her, catching her arm to pull her in for a kiss. She dragged his head closer as she kissed him back, fingers tightening in his hair; after a moment he broke the kiss, chest heaving. 

“Your car was due five minutes ago,” he breathed. “If you don’t leave now, you’re going to be very late.” 

She laughed, pressing a quick peck to his lips and caressing his cheek as she pulled away. “Is that a threat, inspector?” 

Her eyes were dark, and her smile was utterly salacious. 

“Not at all,” he said, leaning in to whisper against her ear. “It was a promise, Miss Fisher.” 

“One I expect you to keep when I get back,” she purred, looking at him through her eyelashes; it was a play at coy from a woman who’d likely never been truly coy in her life, and he playfully pinched her bottom to call her bluff. 

Her eyes narrowed and her lips twitched, but she said nothing, just moved away to grab her fur stole and leave the suite. She paused at the door, turning to give him a playful wave of her fingers. 

“Enjoy your evening, darling,” she drawled, and then closed the door behind her. 

Shaking his head—really, it was remarkable how easily they had found a way forward given how long it had taken them to get there—Jack poured himself a whiskey and waited for Shore to arrive. The English detective was due shortly, and Jack hoped the man had managed to uncover something of use while they’d been away. His drink was half-finished when there was a knock at the door, and he found Shore on the other side. The man glanced around the room as he stepped into the suite. 

“Miss Fisher isn’t around?” he asked. 

“She had other commitments, unfortunately,” Jack said, taking Shore’s hat and coat and hanging it by the door. 

“Pity. She’s a cracking girl—she must make you look wonderful in front of your superiors.” 

“I try not to take undue credit,” Jack said dryly, “and I’m fairly certain she’s more likely to get me dismissed than commended. Drink?” 

Shore nodded assent, and Jack poured him a whiskey and topped up his own. He was becoming more and more certain that Shore was the sort of progressive man whose ideals outstripped his current capabilities. Still, a few days with Phryne would find his capabilities propelled forward at a breakneck speed, and at least the man _tried_. There were worse officers to ally themselves with, even if Shore’s height and gangly limbs continuously reminded Jack of a scarecrow; it really was rather distracting. 

“However did you find her, anyway?” Shore asked as he sat down, knees protruding either side of the armchair, rather proving both of Jack’s points. 

“Over a corpse.” 

“Naturally,” Shore snorted. “Did you see the wisdom in using her expertise immediately?” 

“Absolutely not,” Jack said. “But seeing as how, within days of arriving in the country, she procured evidence against both a backstreet abortionist I’d been trying to arrest for years and the leader of a cocaine-smuggling ring, I quickly boarded the freight train. And she certainly had no qualms allying herself with _me_ , when it benefited her.” 

“And now you’re…” 

Jack could easily read the question in Shore’s voice; he’d expected it before, but clearly the man had enough interest in self-preservation to not bring the matter up around Phryne. Still, Jack didn’t particularly feel like answering, so he feigned confusion. 

“In London, yes, but I don’t expect it will be a long-term arrangement. There was only so much leave available, and I would hate to put my station under the care of another inspector for too long.” 

Shore wasn’t convinced—Jack would have been disappointed in his colleague if he had been—but he didn’t press the matter. 

“I hope you won’t leave too quickly,” he said instead, taking a sip of his whiskey. “I suspect Miss Fisher would be quite helpful in clearing my current backlog. And a few inquiries shed some light on your history as well—your presence certainly won’t hurt the cause.” 

Of course Shore had investigated him—in his shoes, Jack would have done the same thing—but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Jack shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. 

“Pique her curiosity and I’m sure she’ll oblige,” Jack said. “Did you have any success tracking down our Magpie while we were away?” 

“I did, in fact. Miss Fisher was able to narrow down the cities and dates, which allowed me to make more efficient inquiries. You will be unsurprised to learn that both York and Edinburgh had a suspicious spate of missing jewels in the time frame, and our friend the Magpie was making a name for himself at the same events.” 

“And the sister?” Jack asked—alibi or not, the scarf in her rooms was very damning. Not that he was revealing that particular detail just yet. 

“That’s where it gets slightly odd,” Shore said. “She was his assistant in Edinburgh, but there’s no record of her in York. Apparently he performed with a bloke.” 

A vague memory tickled the back of Jack’s mind, but he couldn’t quite bring it forth. No doubt Phryne would have more success. 

“Were they able to connect the Magpie to the thefts?” 

“He was performing. They were as stymied as we are. But it’s enough to bring him in for formal questioning, see if we can’t rattle something loose.” 

“I’m not sure that’s wise.” 

“No?” Shore asked, voice challenging; this was his investigation, no matter how willing he was to accept assistance from Phryne and Jack. 

Jack doubted the man was accustomed to his authority being flaunted, which had become a natural state for Jack since Phryne had whirled into his life; he’d never admit it, but Jack suspected that the challenge made him a better policeman. It certainly made the job more enjoyable. And, to be utterly frank, Jack trusted his intuition more than he trusted a police officer he’d only just met, even if he seemed competent enough. He did not intend to back down. 

“The Magpie moves on when suspicions are aroused,” Jack pointed out, “and being a murder suspect will only make matters more precarious. Miss Fisher’s hired him for an event Friday evening, and set it about all our suspects—they are, of course, invited as well—that she’ll be wearing jewelry that could establish a thief for life. The promise of a score that big will make it difficult for the thief to leave, whoever it may be, and it will buy us time.” 

“Are all policemen like this in Australia?” Shore asked incredulously, shaking his head. 

“No,” said Jack. “More’s the pity.” 

———

Phryne’s town car arrived at the restaurant in Piccadilly Circus with time to spare, and she thanked the driver and slid out of the vehicle. Breathing deeply before striding towards the well-known entrance to the Criterion, she reminded herself of the plan—remain cool, detached, steady in the face of whatever scheme her father had no doubt concocted. She wanted to confirm the arrangements for the party, for her mother’s sake, and ensure the plan to catch the thief-cum-potential-murderer in the act was in place—anything else was extraneous. She greeted the doorman by name and swept inside; her parents were standing at the cloak room, so Phryne quickly deposited her own stole and joined them.

“Mother, father,” she said, dutifully allowing Margaret to kiss her cheek in greeting. “Are you well?” 

“Marvelous, my dear,” Henry boomed, his usual flamboyancy on full display; Phryne did her best to ignore him. 

“And you, mother?” 

“Fine, Phryne darling,” Margaret said. “Lady Carruthers’ son Thomas is back in London.” 

Not for the first time since her arrival in London, Phryne realised that age had very much begun to catch up with her mother; her hair was fully grey and there was a slight stoop to her shoulders, but the same force of character was there. Shame she directed it towards things like the eligibility of bachelor sons Phryne had no intention of meeting. 

“Thomas Carruthers has abhorrent politics and perpetual congestion, Mother. I’m sure there’s a woman out there he’d make very happy, but it won’t be me.” 

“Phryne darling, at your age you really cannot afford—” 

“One of the many advantages to my financial independence is that I can afford whatever I like, mother. And this evening I fancy a delicious dinner while we discuss your marvelous party. I’ve engaged The Disillusioned Magpie to perform—he’s making quite a splash in the right circles. You’ll be the talk of the town.” 

And if things went very well, the discussion would be very much about the capture of a pickpocketing mastermind—perhaps best not to mention that to her mother just yet, though no doubt she’d enjoy the gossip it created. Margaret did not have the same aversion to scandal that Aunt Prudence did, so long as she came out in the right. Waving a hand to get her parents to join her, Phryne walked over the the maitre d’ and was quickly seated at their reserved table. 

Conversation was superficial as they waited for wine to be brought to the table—the weather, mutual acquaintances, the sorts of polite but dull niceties that had buoyed Phryne’s way through many a dinner party—but as the first course arrived it became clear that her father’s flight to London had not changed him in the least. He was the hero of every tale, the charmer, the showman. His version of events in Melbourne bore very little resemblance to the ones Phryne remembered, and his recounting of the flight was even worse. 

She did her best to keep their attention on the party plans, but by the time the final course arrived, Phryne was fighting a pounding headache and contemplating whether it was possible to stab her father with a fork and escape before other guests noticed. She could flee to a tropical island, where there was nothing but blue skies and attractive men bringing her mixed drinks. Perhaps she could convince Jack to go on the lam with her—a policeman would be very useful when it came to evading capture. 

He’d probably arrest her himself, which was inconvenient, but it would be worth asking. 

Margaret finished her dessert—a sticky toffee pudding—and excused herself to attend the ladies’ facilities; Phryne took the opportunity to round on her father, fire in her eyes. 

“There’s one more matter regarding the party,” she began. “Do you remember Inspector Robinson?”

“Unfortunately.” 

She smiled, baring her teeth. 

“He is in town for an investigation, and will be in attendance.” 

Clearly Henry could think of little worse, and said so. 

“At the party? You can’t be serious, my girl!” 

“I believe you’ll find I am. Undercover, as it happens, and if you so much as think about ruining it I will tell Mother the truth about exactly what happened in Melbourne. The other women, the gambling in Lilydale—yes, I know about that—” 

“I had to entertain myself somehow!” 

“I don’t care. You’ve cast yourself as the courageous saviour in this tale, and she seems happy enough to believe it. But if you interfere with this case, so help me…” 

Henry harrumphed. 

“Never thought I’d see the day you choose the law over your own family—” 

“I’m quite happy with my priorities,” Phryne said levelly, fist tightening on her fork. Maybe just a little stab, just enough to silence him for the rest of the meal. “And if you’d given a little more thought to yours, I’d have no reason to tell Mother anything.” 

It was an excellent point, which Henry dealt with by ignoring entirely. 

“I suppose it’s a coincidence that the inspector is in London at the same time you are?” 

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, father,” Phryne said. 

Henry looked thoughtful. Or possibly evaluating. 

“He’s a decent bloke, perhaps I ought to invite him for drinks at the club.” 

Oh delightful, he was opting for the ‘charm the danger into compliance’ route. Phryne sincerely doubted that Jack would fall for it, but there was still a small part of her that wanted to shield him from the possibility. She was saved from concocting a reply that was both sufficiently neutral and sufficiently dangerous by an interruption. 

“Who is a decent bloke?” 

Margaret had returned to the table at the worst possible moment; Henry turned to her with a beaming smile.

“The Duke of Norfolk,” he lied, all charm and easiness—Phryne felt a brief stab of guilt at being the reason he was lying this time, but needs must. And it was far less offensive than his usual untruths. “Phryne was telling me more about her visit this weekend.” 

Margaret looked between her husband and daughter, and Phryne tried to keep her expression neutral. The last thing she needed was to tip her mother off. 

“You’ve always liked Norf,” she said, taking a seat. Crisis averted. “Tell me, is he any closer to settling down?” 

“Not with me, mother.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Phryne darling!” 

She had, of course; Phryne been subject to enough of her mother’s attempts at playing Cupid to recognise the signs, not least of all the insistence on calling her ‘Phryne darling’ like Phryne was an obedient spaniel instead of a grown woman. She grit her teeth and smiled, and told herself they only had the after-dinner drinks left to get through. She absently reached towards her breast, where the swallow pin had rested of of her flight to England and kept her steady in her father’s worst moments, and remembered with a pang that it was not there. 

Eventually Phryne was able to make her excuses and leave, promising to telephone in the morning to settle a few outstanding details of the party arrangements. Alone in the taxicab back to the hotel, head still aching from the tension, she contemplated all the things she’d like to do to Jack—pin him against the wall and kiss him until they were both short of oxygen, ride him until the pounding of her blood drowned out the droning irritation of her parents, collapse in such sated satisfaction that she could forget the events of the evening. Sex was a truly marvelous distraction, and Jack was such a willing participant; she hummed as she made her way to the top floor of the Savoy, slipping the key into the door and tossing her stole aside as she stepped into the suite. 

To her surprise—and a complete disruption of her plans—she found Shore was still in the suite, mid-conversation with Jack. 

“Miss Fisher!” Jack said, a smile spreading across his face as he saw her. “Shore and I were discussing a case of his. Pour yourself a drink, join us. We could use your insight.” 

Unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome. She helped herself to a whiskey and sat on the chaise near Jack. The two men quickly caught her up on the situation—a murder six months previous—and by the time Shore left an hour later, with several new avenues of investigation, she’d almost completely forgotten dinner with her parents. It came up as they prepared for bed, but by then the spectre had faded in the light of companionship and challenge. 

“Dinner went well?” Jack asked. 

She glanced towards his reflection in the mirror; he knew what her father was like and was obviously concerned, but he kept from voicing it. There was no condescension or doubt of her competence in his concern, just deep affection and understanding, and she loved him for it. 

“All participants survived,” Phryne said with a laugh. “And the rest of my evening has more than made up for it.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Over the next few days, Phryne barely managed to see Jack outside of the bedroom—he left early in the morning and spent most of the day tracking down leads with Inspector Shore, who was proving himself to be a tenacious investigator, if slightly obnoxious, and often returned late in the evening, exhausted. The few times they seemed to be in the same room there was company and he was Mr. Butler, which was a novelty that was wearing thin _very_ quickly.

As much as she preferred to work more… _intimately_ with Jack—and not just for prurient reasons—Phryne had her own inquiries to make and a party to plan. Norf’s financial situation was not as dire as she’d predicted, his overspending strictly in discretionary funds and no gambling or debts—not wise, per se, but very unlikely to lead to a life of crime. Alice was likewise ruled out; her having spent several months in Greece earlier in the year was a rather strong alibi for the first thefts, and Phryne’d never really suspected her anyway. A few well-placed questions confirmed that the van Houten fortune was not what it once was, and the sisters had recently come to England in search of eligible men to secure their futures—Phryne couldn’t help but feel it was an antiquated ritual, but it did provide an incentive for Rose’s potential involvement. It didn’t explain other parties or cities though, and she had to admit the entire thing felt futile—all her inquiries confirmed her initial assessment, but got them no closer to a resolution. It had to be the Magpie, nobody else made sense.

But as frustrating as the experience was proving to be, she and Jack always found a few moments in the evening to discuss the day over a drink or a late-night supper. Jack’s queries had done little to progress the case either—Betty’s suitor in Arundel had been ruled out as the murderer, making it likely her death was connected to the jewelry thefts; they hadn’t been able to identify the man who’d accompanied the Magpie in York; inquiries at the staffing agency had uncovered nothing new; very little had been learnt in truth—but there was something immensely pleasing in curling into the sofa, watching his expansive hands gesture and allowing his voice to wash over her. They talked and teased and _enjoyed_ themselves; the assurance that their friendship had not been abandoned in pursuit of their romantic endeavors… it should not have felt as revelatory as it did, but she was grateful for it all the same.

Sometimes their evening led to more carnal indulgences, but not always. There was something immensely enjoyable in both options, in truth. Jack was, unsurprisingly to her, an excellent lover—attentive and athletic and _fun_ , and the depth of intimacy between them heightened the experience; to fall into bed together, kissing and touching and _living_ , was intoxicating. But the evenings where they did not make love, because they were tired or disinclined or one of them was heading back out for some investigative purpose, were wonderful in another way. Even in England, far away from the station and her parlour and all the self-inflicted restraints that had kept them from crossing into her boudoir, they could appreciate one another’s company.

Her pin had still not turned up. Phryne told herself that it was a silly thing to concern herself with, but every conversation with her father had left her feeling its loss in an unexpected way—the simple way Jack had seen through her father and her own bravado, the way he’d acknowledged it without judgment… it had meant more than even she had realised, in truth, and the pin had become a talisman. Such superstition felt unfamiliar, and she did not need it to know that Jack was—unquestioningly—on her side. But she missed that little swallow all the same.

The night before her parents’ anniversary party, they were on the chaise. She’d snagged a book and sprawled against him, her head on his shoulder and her legs stretching along the seats. His hand absently stroked her arm as he read through copies of case files that had arrived from York that day, in the hopes he’d find something in them that the police had overlooked.

“It really is a bit of luck you’re a police officer,” Phryne said eventually, placing a bookmark to mark her place and setting the novel aside before resuming her place against his shoulder. She could feel both the soft cotton of his shirt and the slight roughness of his wool vest against her cheek; she breathed deeply, and rubbed herself against him like a contented cat.

“Hmm?” he asked, not looking up. “Luck?”

“I’m quite sure Shore would not be half as cooperative for me.”

“Experience suggests that you wouldn’t need him to be, Miss Fisher.”

“It’s useful all the same,” she insisted. “Admittedly not as useful as your few domestic skills in this case, but…”

He hrmphed in a manner that was in no way sincere, and Phryne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. He shifted to lean closer, his mouth directly against her ear and his voice pitched low.

“Keep that up, Miss Fisher, and I’ll pinch that delicious bottom of yours for your cheek.”

“Careful, Jack,” she teased back, hoping her voice didn’t give away exactly how appealing the idea was. She suspected he had a pretty good idea; it wasn’t the first time he’d played that particular card, and she hadn’t exactly hidden her reactions. “What’s good for the goose…”

His fingers slid from her forearm onto her chest, catching a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a quick squeeze; the sensation flashed from breast to cunt in a remarkably quick time, and she spun around and hiked up her dress to straddle him in one movement; his pupils were blown wide, and she dipped her head to tease the seam of his lips with her tongue. When his lips parted to deepen the connection, she pulled away playfully and tsked.

“That was not playing fair, Jack,” she said huskily, rotating her hips against him and revelling in the shocks it sent through her; he groaned in response and clasped her hips to hold her close.

“Not sure I care about playing fair, Miss Fisher.”

She levered herself onto her knees and he groaned again, eyes closed and head lolling against the back of the chaise. She dipped her head once more, nudging his nose with hers and kissing his philtrum gently.

“Control of oneself is so… admirable, in a man,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint, would you?”

His eyes opened, and the cocky surety mingled with awe in his gaze was almost enough to send her over the edge. His fingers slipped beneath her skirt.

“Never, Miss Fisher.”

Oh yes, quiet evenings with Jack were a delight. But carnal indulgences couldn’t be underestimated either.

———

Jack glanced into the en suite mirror, straightening his bowtie and smoothing his hair back into compliance. It had been fine until Phryne had declared him “positively delectable” and nibbled her way from collar to earlobe, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the disturbance. Even if it was going to make him late.

“ _Ja-ack_ ,” the woman in question singsonged from the other room. “Could you…”

With a final glance at his reflection, he exited the bathroom and saw Phryne standing in the middle of the bedroom, dangling a necklace from her fingertips. While he’d been straightening himself up she’d changed into a pewter-coloured evening gown that managed to suggest quite a lot while saying very little; she clearly read his response in his face because she smiled and spun to show off the back. Or, rather, what little there was of the back—it dipped dangerously, enough that if they were to waltz his hand would be on bare skin. Not that he would be waltzing with her that night; in that moment, he felt the inability keenly. She completed her turn, smiling broadly.

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Nobody will be noticing your rubies,” he said, managing to sound only half-strangled.

She laughed in delight and held the necklace out—it was heavy, with a centre ruby the size of a small egg. She already had the matching earrings and bracelet on, and she lifted her bob from the nape of her neck so he could secure the final piece. He did, then traced a finger along her spine, eventually dipping just beneath the fabric at the small of her back.

No knickers.

Right then, probably best to beat a very hasty retreat from the room. Especially as she’d drawn a breath at his touch, swaying slightly as she waited to see his next step.

She was going to kill him.

He coughed and took a half-step back, not ready to be apart from her but knowing he had to.

“I’m late,” he said by way of apology. “I should…”

“Of course.”

They both shifted, and he caught her eye. They exchanged a smile that was, for the circumstances, remarkably sheepish.

“I’m quite certain I was far more punctual before you arrived,” she said. “I’ll finish up here and then head to the party. You’ll want to speak with Frankston when you arrive. He’s a doll, really, and will get you situated. I’ve warned my father you’ll be there, but the more you avoid him…. He’d dob you in for a pint and a fag, so be careful?”

“I suspect neither of us are particularly eager for that reunion,” Jack said reassuringly; he’d known too many Henry Fishers to be convinced by his charms, but he understood Phryne’s concern. “Have you warned Shore?”

“And miss the entertainment?” Phryne asked with a smirk. “Absolutely not.”

Jack gave a small smile and reached out to touch the necklace he’d just placed around her neck.

“We’ll both be there, of course, but…” he trailed off, not certain exactly how to voice his concerns.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t take care of herself—he’d be an idiot to think otherwise—but the situation was unsettling. Too many people, too many variables, too many questions. Thankfully, Phryne seemed to understand; she fluttered her eyelashes playfully and smirked.

“Are you asking me to be careful, Jack?”

“I’m sure I’m not that foolish,” he said dryly.

“I won’t take unnecessary risks,” she said, voice much more sincere as she tugged at the edge of his suit jacket. “No ruby is worth dying for. But I can’t promise anything beyond that.”

He’d never want her to, and he hoped she knew that. Pressing a kiss to her forehead—the freshly applied red on her lips would be far too tempting and far too telling—he said his goodbyes and left the hotel suite. Hailing a taxicab on the street outside, he gave the address to the townhouse where the elder Fishers resided and settled back into the seat.

The plans for the evening were their best option, but they were aggravatingly vague all the same. Phryne would make herself bright and available and an easy target, which was never going to please his policeman’s sensibilities, and he and Shore would be the eyes and ears to stop the thief before they struck. He wasn’t quite certain how Phryne would manage to arm herself given the gown she was wearing, but she was resourceful. And only minimally careless when it mattered. By the time the taxicab arrived, he’d settled himself to the plans as best he could.

The Fisher residence was large, neat, and well-kept. It was also, he knew, paid for by Phryne herself. He paid the driver and headed towards the servants’ entrance, where the butler Frankston greeted him. Jack had met the man briefly earlier in the week, when Phryne had introduced him and explained that ‘Mr. Butler’ would be one of the staff brought in for the party, and Frankston clearly remembered him. Jack was quickly set to work setting up the party; in the main parlour he saw both Marty and Claire from the staffing agency, and he said his hellos before continuing to work.

At one point, Margaret Fisher made an appearance, accompanied by Henry; Jack ducked his head and watched from the corner of his eye.The older woman was, in some ways, very much like her daughter—she had that same determined certainty in her own judgement, for starters, and their laughs were nearly identical. But while Phryne’s moments of coy simpering were a lark that Jack was privy to and were never to be taken at face value, Margaret’s seemed sincere; it was not the most flattering observation, but the woman was polite to the staff and not unpleasant, and conducted herself well enough.

Phryne herself arrived shortly after that, in advance of the arrival of the guests, and checked on the arrangements in each room. Years of being a policeman gave Jack more of an insight into her emotional state than she would have appreciated, but it was hard not to notice how quickly she tensed up when her parents were in the room, or how quickly she hid the tiny tell. She was a remarkable woman, and a small part of him was selfish enough to wish he was on her arm instead of playing the role he’d been given.

He had no time for such wallowing as the guests began to arrive; Inspector Shore was one of the first, and Jack checked in with him briefly. Friends of the elder Fishers arrived in groups, along with some younger guests. When Norf and Alice arrived—at the same time, Jack noted—the Duke of Norfolk greeted him jovially and commented on his change of role.

“Miss Fisher required it,” Jack said. “I hope your journey was pleasant?”

“Very much so, old chap!” Norf said, teeth actually glinting in the lamp light. The man was a caricature of good breeding. “With all that unpleasant business with the girl, I never did get a chance to show you the chapel on the grounds. If Phryne comes to Arundel again, I must bring you.”

“I would hate to impose.”

“Pshaw!” Norf said lightly. “No imposition at all. No, I’ll speak with her directly. Weekend after next.”

Jack nodded and excused himself, returning to the kitchens to fill a tray with champagne. Claire Connors, the red-haired maid he’d allied himself with against Arundel’s tyrannical cook, was also there, picking up more canapes.

“Mr. Butler!” she exclaimed, hands fiddling with her skirts. “I didn’t know you’d be here? Though of course you are. Silly me! My ma always said that I never thought a presumption through.”

Jack responded in kind and they chatted amiably for a few moments, then picked up their respective trays to rejoin the party. A glimpse of shining blue on her black dress caught Jack’s eye, and he paused. Surely it wasn’t… ?

———

From her position near the door, Phryne surveyed the party—there was a good mix of friends of her parents and Interesting People to make the soiree a success, and people were happily mingling. Food and drink were circulating freely and laughter flowed through the room. Music was playing on the gramophone, and one corner had become a makeshift dance floor for some of the younger guests. She spotted Norf and Alice dancing together and tried to hide a smile—for all her suspicions were on a marriage of practicality, Norf was looking rather besotted as he looked down at the top of Alice’s head. It was a rather telling expression, all things considered. Or, perhaps, Phryne was seeing besotted men everywhere.

From across the room she caught Jack’s eye, and gave a tiny motion of her head. She moved along the wall towards a corner, which would give them space to speak in peace and watch the room at the same time. Jack joined her a moment later, one hand carrying a silver tray laden with champagne coupes and offering one to her. Phryne took it.

“Anything?” she asked into her glass.

“Not from the Magpie,” Jack said, ducking his head towards her and dropping his voice to hide their conversation.

He subtly nodded towards the magician, who was in deep discussion with Lady Carruthers and her son—it seemed Phryne’s mother hadn’t been deterred by her declarations. Margaret’s attempts at matchmaking were likely a moot point—Rose van Houten was waiting in the wings to swoop in during a lull in the conversation, and Phryne was quite happy to let her.

“Where is Wren?” Phryne asked, eyes scanning the room for the young woman; it would be best to have an eye on all the potential suspects.

“She’s in her rooms. A headache, by all accounts, though she expects to be well enough to perform after dinner.”

Phryne gave a sigh of frustration—as hostess, she really ought to have been the one to know that, but she’d been dealing with some nonsense of her father’s for the last hour. At least Jack was on top of things, and in another corner she spotted Inspector Shore eating canapes and nodding along desperately while Millie White chattered away; Millie was the sort who appreciated a silent audience, so that was serendipitous. Phryne tried to hide her smile.

Jack was watching the room as well, his face set in an unreadable expression; not dour, at least not to someone who knew him well, but she found the urge to break through it all the same. A particularly wicked thought struck her, and she smiled once more. She sidled slightly closer to him under the pretense of returning her coupe to the tray and taking a second one. Angling her body to hide her next move, she slipped her free hand beneath his suit tails and pinched his arse with surprising efficiency.

The tray rattled sightly.

“Careful, Mr. Butler,” she scolded, stepping back slightly. “I did warn you.”

“Please tell me that I’m not expected to honk,” Jack said dryly, clearly remembering her threats about geese and ganders.

She looked him up and down deliberately.

“I’m sure I could be compelled to have mercy,” she purred, “with the right incentive.”

“Check my pocket. Left.”

She blinked. That was not at all what she was insinuating and he would know that, but curiosity ruled. Glancing over her shoulder to double check they weren’t being watched, she dipped her hand into his trouser pocket. At the bottom her fingers hit something small and hard; she quickly extracted it, and looked at it in surprise.

“Am I forgiven?” Jack asked, not even glancing in her direction; his voice was rough though, betraying emotions his face hid.

She ran her thumb over her swallow pin—and it was hers, not a replacement—and tried to summon a witty retort.

“Phryne?”

She gave her head a small shake at his concerned tone, and clenched the pin in her fist.

“No need to honk,” she said, voice shaking. “Wherever did you find it?”

His lips twitched into a smile.

“That is the real gift,” he said. “Meet me by the kitchens in twenty minutes.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the immense delay in updating. There's only an epilogue left to post, and that's written save the editing. Thank you all for staying with me despite the erratic update schedule and complete inability to reply to fic comments. I will get to them, I swear, but I appreciate every single one. ♥

After dinner, Phryne returned the party guests into the parlour. Glancing around the room, she ensured everyone was present—all the guests and staff, Shore in one corner looking slightly bemused and only half informed, Jack in full Mr. Butler persona—and then slid her necklace off her neck and into her handbag. As the jewelry slid into the velvet pouch, she saw the swallow pin once more. Oh, she was going to _enjoy_ this. With a final look towards Jack—best to make sure he knew when to move into position—she took a deep breath and shrieked.

“My rubies! Help! Someone has stolen my rubies!”

Silence fell across the party, just for a moment, then chaos broke out. Women checked their own jewelry frantically, men blustered, and Marty the hired hand stood in shock for a few seconds before barrelling towards the door at full speed.

“Jack!” Phryne shouted.

He was already moving to block the exit; a firm stance and a lowered shoulder kept him from being bowled over as Marty collided with him, then Jack straightened and caught the other man’s arms to secure them.

“Martin Lee,” he barked. “On behalf of Scotland Yard, you’re under arrest for the murder of Betty Greene and multiple counts of larceny. Inspector Shore?”

Shore stepped forward. The rest of the party had fallen silent as they waited to see how it would all play out, but after a moment a series of whispers broke out amongst them; very little truly deterred Society.

“It wasn’t the Magpie?” Norf asked after a moment. “I’ll be damned.”

“Well,” Phryne drawled, stepping forward. She really was looking forward to this. “I wouldn’t go that far. Jack?”

She glanced over—he was still standing by the door while Shore had led Marty towards a sofa, ready to keep Marty’s accomplices from sidling out the door. Phryne’s piercing gaze fell upon the Magpie and Wren, who both froze as they realised they had been caught out.

“Please,” Phryne said with a smile, “take a seat. It really was a clever ruse.”

The Magpie looked ready to fight, but Wren sighed heavily and took a seat on the chair near Marty.

“This will be much easier if you cooperate,” Phryne said blithely.

“For heaven’s sake, Robin,” Wren hissed. “We’re caught. You just had to push our luck, never satisfied.”

The Magpie glowered, but took a seat as well.

“Thank you,” Phryne said. “I really do believe I have the whole of it, but please do speak up if I’ve made an error along the way. There’s more than enough evidence to lay the charges regardless, but I appreciate a complete series of events.”

Phryne looked around the assembled party—the guests looked riveted at the chance of a denouement, the thieves looked irate, Shore appeared both confused and eager to be filled in, and Jack… Jack had solved the case, or at least cracked it open so Phryne could make the final conclusions, but was watching her as if she was the cleverest person in the room. He likely was’t wrong, but he really did tend to underestimate himself.

“Should I begin at the beginning?” Phryne asked. “Or start with your downfall? It was a woman, as it so often is, if that matters.”

Silence.

Phryne extracted the swallow pin from her bag, rolling it over and over between her fingers.

“This was a gift,” she said idly, letting the light catch on the glass. “A reminder from a dear friend that he knew me. Not better than I know myself, of course, but as well as anybody ever had. An expression of admiration, perhaps, and most definitely a statement of equality.”

Jack was smiling, that obnoxious not-smile that could be so easily mistaken for a frown if not for the softness in his eyes.

“Taking it,” Phryne continued, voice hardening, “was your first mistake.”

She tossed it into the air and caught it, then secured it to the strap of her gown; it really was important to put on a spectacle.

“It’s a swallow,” Phryne said. “Mistaken by Mr. Lee here as a martin. They are related, it was an easy mistake to make. He found it in my jewelry case, no doubt when rifling through my jewels in an effort to determine whether I could be targeted a second time, and pocketed it. It made a pretty gift for the pretty maid he’d been mooning over—not so fine as to be remarkable, but with a memorable angle. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for him, the pretty maid—who will remain nameless, because she is entirely innocent in this—wore the pin, and was quite happy to return it to its rightful owner and explain where she got it when Inspector Robinson—” here she nodded at Jack “—asked.”

Jack tipped his head, smirking slightly as the audience turned as one to stare at him.

“What’s that to do with the Magpie?”

“Patience, Norf. I’m aware it is not your strong suit, but I am getting there. So we had the identity of the thief, and an explanation for how he could move so easily without being caught—a servant is nearly invisible, unless he intends to be otherwise. My own houseman is remarkably adept at that trick himself. But that did not explain everything. What did the Magpie have to do with it? How could Marty steal at parties he was not hired for? But the latter was simple—who would notice an extra servant in a busy house, one who could slip away before the police arrived? As for the former…” Phryne touched the pin again, telling herself it was to add to the performance but still seeking its shape beneath her fingertips. “The clue was in the pin once more. A martin is a bird. Much like Robin, which is the Magpie’s given name, and Wren; they did mention there was another brother. A detail I should have questioned much earlier, in all honesty, but I was distracted by… other things. The scheme relied on it, in truth. With a flashy magician possessing an impeccable alibi, people did not look closely enough at the alternatives.”

Shore looked slightly shame-faced at the comment, which had not been her intention; the deception had fooled both her and Jack as well, it really was well done.

“Once I drew the connection between the bird and the name, things began to fall into place. The assistant in York—I presume that was you, Marty, and Wren was given the task of relieving guests of their jewels?” Marty nodded. “And I thought, at first, that there was some attraction between Wren and the young servant, but her blushing aversion made less sense when other tales of her forthrightness came to light. So there must have been some other reason she was reluctant to meet his eyes.”

“And then there was the scarf,” Jack supplied helpfully.

“Scarf?”

Shore looked confused, and Phryne shrugged lightly in faux-apology. Surely Jack’s look of slightly-more-sincere apology towards his fellow police officer would smooth things over.

“Yes, there was… evidence that I failed to mention. To wit, a long scarf with signs it had been our murder weapon hidden beneath Wren’s pillow.”

Wren gasped, her hand coming to cover her mouth and her entire body recoiling from the chaise where her brothers sat.

“No,” Phryne said softly, “I didn’t think you knew.”

The girl had begun to cry, great wracking sobs.

“I thought… I thought maybe they’d—I didn’t know, not for sure, but the maid saw the three of us talking that morning. Marty was passing on the stolen ring. And then the poor girl was dead, and I didn’t _know_ …”

“It can be difficult to think the worst of family,” Phryne said soothingly. It was far too easy to imagine how the girl would be told time and time again how reliant she was on their mercy, how complicit she’d been and how easily she could be ruined. 

“It was so small, at first,” Wren sobbed, patting at her dress in search of a handkerchief. Shore supplied one from his own pocket and sat back, giving her room to speak. “We were hungry, and magic on the streets made for easy pickpocketing. It was a necessity to live, I swear. Then we began to be invited to perform, until soon we were in all the great homes and they had so much, and Robin swore they’d barely notice. It wasn’t right, I knew it wasn’t right, but I was so deep in—”

“Why didn’t you speak up, if you were so concerned?” Norf asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Surely—”

“Norf,” Phryne interrupted. “I think, perhaps, we ought to continue listening to Wren.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, looking imploringly up at Norf. “You seemed… very kind, you did. But…”

She began to sob again, and Phryne touched Norf’s forearm.

“I suspect that she felt she was in no position to speak up,” Phryne said quietly, so the audience did not hear. “About the thefts, or anything else on that matter.”

And while Norf could be an utterly clueless cad in some respects, the implication was not lost on him, nor was the repulsion false.

“I would never—”

“Norf, darling, I know that. But you have made a habit of refusing to consider the relative positions of the people you proposition. All the good intentions in the world cannot make equality alone.” Her eyes sought Jack’s still figure, leaning against the doorframe. “But finding your equals is very much worth it.”

Norf followed her gaze.

“The man you aren’t inclined to share?” he asked understandingly.

“It’s not my place to decide that,” Phryne said, then smiled. “Not alone, at least.”

———

Jack leant against the doorway, watching Phryne move from guest to guest and reassure them. Margaret Fisher had wailed and sunk into a couch as the siblings had been escorted from the room by Shore and his constables, demanding smelling salts—“She likes it really,” Phryne had said under her breath as she’d moved past him to settle the woman—and several of her friends had followed suit. Jack was fairly certain that consolation from a butler-cum-policeman was not the sort of attention they were looking for, so took himself to the doorway to observe at a distance. Margaret and her friends had rallied with surprising speed and had begun to relive the excitement with increasing pitch, clutching—rather literally, in some cases—at their pearls and shaking their heads in a manner meant to invoke disapproval. Jack wondered if they knew how badly they failed at this attempt.

“Well, isn’t this a bit of a lark?” asked a voice from behind him; Jack turned to see Norf, his usual good-natured smile on his face. “I wondered about your employment, but I wouldn’t have pegged you for a policeman. I have a nose for that sort of thing.”

“Used to keep you out of trouble?” Jack said, smiling despite himself.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s done much good,” Norf laughed. “Money goes further on that front.”

“Or knowing the right people.”

Norf looked at him, evaluating.

“And are you the right people, inspector?”

“It seems unlikely.”

“That’s not the same as a no.”

Perhaps it was the distance from home, the relative anonymity of his situation, or an understanding between two people regardless of station, but he shrugged with more nonchalance than he thought possible.

“No, it’s not.”

“Not what?” asked Phryne, approaching.

“Norf was wondering whether I could be led astray,” Jack said. “Bribery, that sort of thing.”

Not that sort of thing at all, which Phryne clearly knew; she didn’t remark on it directly.

“Well, I certainly hope you told him no,” Phryne said, wrinkling her nose playfully and tugging at his jacket lapel. “I believe I’ve laid claim to all your astrays for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, have you, Miss Fisher?” Jack teased back; her head was tilted up as if she intended to kiss him, and other thoughts were promptly forgotten in the face of it.

“I _have_ ,” she purred. “And as you are so fastidious and morally upright—” she pulled at his bowtie, looking ready to eat him alive “—I think it’s in both our interests to begin your rehabilitation as quickly as possible.”

“If you think it’s best,” he said huskily.

She swayed even closer, her eyes focused on his lips.

“I really, really do, Jack.”

A cough, and Jack remembered Norf’s presence. He gave a sheepish smile and took a half-step back. The duke was watching them, clearly amused.

“Your mother is coming this way, Phrynekins,” he warned, nodding behind them.

Jack felt her stiffen instantly; he placed his hand at the small of her back, thumb brushing the skin exposed by the dipped back, and shifted so he stood at Phryne’s elbow. Phryne would take the lead in this particular waltz, but he wanted it made abundantly clear that he was on the dance floor.

“Want me to go?” he murmured, low enough only she would hear; she gave a small shake of her head in response, and he squared his shoulders.

“Phryne darling!” Margaret exclaimed as she drew near. “And Norf, it’s good to see you.”

Norf gave a small—and completely inappropriate, given their respective ranks—bow.

“Lady Fisher, the pleasure is mine. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’m being called away.”

Jack followed Norf’s gesture; Alice was across the room, paying the group absolutely no mind. Then again, given a chance to escape the too shrewd gaze of Margaret Fisher, Jack might be inclined to lie himself. Either way, Norf beat a hasty retreat, leaving Jack alone with the two Fisher women. Margaret seemed to ignore his existence entirely, turning to her daughter.

“Phryne darling—”

“Hello, Mother. If you intend to lecture me on my inconsiderate choices, I will point out that Millie White is positively green with envy.”

Margaret sniffed. “This deception was—”

“Entirely necessary,” Phryne cut in. “And it went perfectly well.”

“Phry—”

“Mother, have you met Jack?” Phryne asked firmly, her patience clearly nearing its end.

The comment was enough for Margaret to regain her manners. She greeted Jack with false cordiality, made polite small talk, and continued her attempts to needle Phryne for her actions and how they reflected poorly on the family. Jack watched it play out, his hand not moving from Phryne’s back; it was a supportive gesture, but the skin there was also remarkably tempting. With any luck, “I couldn’t keep my hands off you in this dress” would be a valid—and not entirely inaccurate—explanation if she asked.

“You know, Phryne darling, these sorts of incidences really will not help you make a suitable match. Thomas Carruthers left with that American!”

Jack felt every muscle in Phryne’s body tense at once, and her smile was positively predatory; Margaret seemed blissfully unaware.

“You’re right, of course, Mother. Whatever would a man want with me? I’m clearly too much trouble, don’t you think, Jack?”

She turned towards him slightly, and the implicit trust in her gaze would have made him fall in love with her if he wasn’t already.

“Just the right amount of trouble, I would say.”

His small smile was met with a genuine one from her, and she turned back to her mother.

“Well, fancy that! Jack doesn’t seem to have any complaints, and he’s the only ‘suitable match’ I have any interest in.”

Margaret looked positively aghast. “A _servant_ , Phryne?”

“A servant of the law, yes. He is a detective inspector in Melbourne. We did cover this during the arrest, Mother.”

“That’s even worse! Phryne darling, you must realise—”

“There really is no ‘must’ here, Mother. I am an entirely independent woman who has no need to marry, despite your current fixation. If I choose to align myself with someone, be he servant or police officer, it is because I have _chosen_ to, and I do not need to justify that decision to appease you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Margaret seemed to realise her current tactics were not making an impression, because she pivoted effortlessly.

“Of course, my dear, I was merely thinking of your happiness.”

Phryne turned slightly toward him; her amusement was like a bright spark, and he realised that—unlike the incidents with her father in Melbourne—she was not hurt by this disagreement. Frustrated, yes, but unhurt.

“A state best reached after three days alone in a hotel room with only a desirable man and room service, wouldn’t you say, Jack?”

“I might quibble with the company, Miss Fisher,” he teased. “I am very charming, yes, but I do believe you have some merits to recommend you as well.”

“Now you’re just being cocky, Jack!” she said with a false pout, angling her body around and wrapping her arms around his waist. She glanced back over her shoulder towards Margaret, who was doing a remarkable impression of a landed fish. “You’ll have to excuse us, Mother. Now we’ve resolved this case, we really are eager to pick up where we left off.”

Margaret went to argue the point, but Phryne quickly took Jack’s arm and propelled them forward and away from the conversation.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Phryne muttered. “Perhaps I should have asked her where father has gotten himself to—in bed after overimbibing, in case you are wondering—and hoped it would distract her.”

Jack chuckled, and leant close enough to brush his lips against the shell of her ear.

“I do believe that’s not your problem, Miss Fisher.”

“No?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, knowing the sound would cause her breath to hitch; he traced a figure up her exposed spine, felt her shiver beneath his touch. “You really must figure out what you’ll do without me as your butler.”

She sighed, smiling broadly.

“I’d much rather go without a butler than go without a Jack,” she laughed, still moving them towards the front door. “But I don’t think there’s any risk of that.”


	15. Epilogue

Phryne burrowed beneath the blankets, fingers stretching out slightly to brush against Jack’s side. He huffed, and she peeked open one eye to look at him. Even in sleep he was handsome, the angles of his face in sunlight casting interesting shadows and his eyelashes glowing golden.

After the arrest of the Lee siblings and the nonsense with her mother, Phryne had barely taken the time to say her farewells before dragging Jack back to the Savoy for their deferred days of languorous seduction. They’d slept and fucked and talked and ate, then did it again, seemingly only dressing long enough to accept food delivered to the suite. They would have to rejoin polite society eventually—if nothing else Phryne hoped to speak on Wren’s behalf before the magistrate, have some leniency granted to the girl under the circumstances—but Phryne had said three days and there was still one left. And seeing as how she was once again awake, she didn’t plan to waste it—laughing, she wriggled closer to Jack and began to kiss along his neck until he stirred.

“Wakey, wakey,” she purred.

“I have no intentions of either rising or shining, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, his eyes still closed and a smile turning down the corner of his lips. “You have utterly exhausted me.”

She slid her hand onto his thigh, scraping her nails against the naked skin and making him shiver.

“I could assist you in the rising,” she offered, “seeing as how your current state is entirely my fault.”

“How noble.”

“Believe me, my intentions haven’t been within spitting distance of noble in years,” she said, immediately undermining her assertions by dropping her hand away and drawing closer to rest her head against his shoulder; his arm wrapped around her and they dozed awhile longer, utterly content just to be together.

Definitely not a waste of the day.

Their lazy repose was eventually disturbed by the ringing of the telephone; leaving her cocoon of blankets and Jack was an unwelcome testament to the strength of her willpower, as far as Phryne was concerned, and the person on the other end had better have an amazing excuse for interrupting her.

“Phryne Fisher,” she said, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Hello, Phryne,” Alice said, voice bright and almost forcefully cheerful. “I’m rather in need of a favour.”

Jack had followed Phryne from the bedroom, still naked, and come to stand behind her, arms wrapping around her waist and his lips slowly exploring the crook of her neck; it took all her strength not to drop the telephone and melt entirely into his embrace.

“What sort of favour?” Phryne asked. “You know I’ll do what I can, but I’m rather preoccupied at the moment.”

She could feel Jack’s lips curve into a smile against her skin, and one of his hands moved to stroke up her stomach to catch her breast in his palm; the surety in his touch was immensely attractive, and the press of his cock against her back delightful. She sighed.

“Tell Inspector Robinson to bugger off,” Alice said with a slight laugh. “This is important.”

“I’m struggling to imagine anything more important at the moment,” Phryne countered dryly. “You didn’t have to suffer through the long wait to get him here. I have no intentions of leaving this suite until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“It’s about Eddie.”

Phryne stilled—there was very little that could persuade her, not after she’d promised Jack no interruptions, but… Alice’s shell-shocked former fiance was among them. 

“Is it Alice?” Jack whispered; Phryne nodded numbly. Jack gently took the telephone receiver from Phryne’s hand. “Miss Walters-Cunningham, when and where do you need her?” A pause. “No, I promise you, this is entirely selfish on my part.” Another pause. “She’ll meet you there in an hour—” Phryne turned within the circle of his arms to look at him; his brow was furrowed in thought. “Are you certain I wouldn’t be imposing? Very well, then. We’ll both meet you there in an hour.”

Jack hung up the telephone.

“Jack, when I said—”

He held up a hand to stop her.

“Miss Fisher, if you are about to apologise for the fact that the well-being of a friend is taking precedence over day three of our mutual ravishment—” The phrasing was so absurd that Phryne began to laugh, and he cracked a smile. He caught her hand and pulled her closer, his voice and eyes both soft. “I’ve come to expect interruptions, Phryne, and I wouldn’t love you quite so much if you were anyone but who you are.”

Rather than reply immediately, she cupped his cheek, allowing her thumb to trace his face—the line of his nose, the crinkles in the corner of his eye, the shape of his lips against the pad of her thumb. He was beautiful asleep, but awake he was Jack.

“Jack Robinson,” she eventually breathed, a smile splitting her face. “I love you too.”

She kissed him, thorough and firm, hoping her touch could convey more than her inadequate words. Eventually she pulled away, with great reluctance, still smiling.

“We’d better get dressed,” she said. “It’s a 45 minute drive to the hospital.”

“Is that with my driving or yours?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“Definitely mine,” Phryne said, laughing. “Don’t worry, you’ll adjust to it eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, again, for sticking with this story, even with the erratic updates. You guys make writing so much fun. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> On a historical note, I am using the dukedom of Norfolk and one of the family properties (a castle in Sussex that appears later in the fic), but Marcus 'Norf' Fitzalan-Howard and his sister Cassandra are complete fabrications as characters. Don't take history lessons from me, folks.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Astray](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018574) by [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign)




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